





** 



1 










'■■ 






<W X Wh) 



,'■ 



45. 













)■■ - 
























■:■' 
V 



^ ##■' 








< 








* ^ Y- 









\ W; 
















L -•- t. 





PRESENTED BY 



P.L. 124 



G P O 9—1456 



THE ETHICS OF THE DUST. 




Professor John Ruskin, M.'A. 



W*. PLEASAKT 









c\ 



0^ 



TRAJfSPBE 
• O. PUBLIC LIBJBUST 
6JBPT. lf,]MO 



902699 \ 

TRANSP ERRED FROM PUBLIC LIBRAR? 
CONTENTS. 






LECTUF 


.E 


PAGE 


I. 


The Valley of Diamonds, 


9 


II. 


The Pyramid Builders, 


27 


III. 


The Crystal Life, . 


. 45 


IV. 


The Crystal Orders, . 


65 


V. 


Crystal Virtues, 


. . 87 


VI. 


Crystal Quarrels, 


. A , 109 


VII. 


Home Virtues, * , . . 


r ."*7 133 


VIII. 


Crystal Caprice, 


, 161 


IX. 


Crystal Sorrows, 


. . 183 


X. 


The Crystal Rest, 


207 




Notes, . . • . 


. 237 



PERSONS. 



Old Lecturer (of incalculable age), 
Frorrie, 

on astronomical evidence presumed to be aged 9 

Isabel, ..." 11 

May, " ir 

Lily, ........ * 12 

Kathleen, . "14 

Lucilla, "15 

Violet, . "16 

Dora, (who has the keys and is housekeeper), " 17 

Egypt (so called from her dark eyes), . . rt 17 
Jessie (who somehow always makes the room 

look brighter when she is in it), . . " i3 
Mary (of whom everybody, including the Old 

Lecturer, is in great awe), . . " 20 



LECTURE i. 

THE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS. 






THE ETHICS OF THE DUST. 



LECTURE I. 

THE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS. 

A very idle talk, by the dining-room Jire, after raisin* 
and-almond time. 

Old Lecturer; Florrie, Isabel, May, Lily, and 

Sibyl. 

Old Lecturer (L.). Come here, Isabel, 
and tell me what the make-believe was, this 
afternoon. 

Isabel (arranging herself very primly on 
the footstool). Such a dreadful one ! Florrie 
and I were lost in the Valley of Diamonds. 

L. What ! Sindbad's, which nobody could 
get out of ? 

Isabel. Yes; but Florrie and I got out 
of it. 

L. So I see. At least, I see you did ; but 
are you sure Florrie did ? 

Isabel. Quite sure. 

Florrie (putting her head round from be- 



io Gbe JEtbice of tbe 2>u0t» 

hind L. 's sofa-cushion). Quite sure. (Dis- 
appears again.} 

L. I think I could be made to feel surer 
about it. 

(Florrie reappears, gives L. a kiss, and 
again exit.} 

L. I suppose it's all right ; but how did 
you manage it? 

Isabel. Well, you know, the eagle that 
took up Sindbad was very large — very, very 
large — the largest of all the eagles. 

L. How large were the others ? 

Isabel. I don't quite know — they were so 
far off. But this one was, oh, so big I and 
it had great wings, as wide as — twice over 
the ceiling. So, when it was picking up 
Sindbad, Florrie and I thought it wouldn't 
know if we got on its back too : so I got up 
first, and then I pulled up Florrie, and we put 
our arms round its neck, and away it flew. 

L. But why did you want to get out of the 
valley? and why haven't you brought me 
some diamonds ? 

Isabel. It was because of the serpents. I 
couldn't pick up even the least little bit of a 
diamond, I was so frightened. 

L. You should not have minded the ser- 
pents. 

Isabel. Oh, but suppose that they had 
minded me ? 

L. We all of us mind you a little too 
much, Isabel, I'm afraid. 

Isabel. No — no— no, indeed. 



Zbe Dalles of Diamond*, n 

L. I tell you what, Isabel — I don't believe 
either Sindbad, or Florrie, or you, ever were 
in the Valley of Diamonds. 

Isabel. You naughty ! when I tell you we 
were ! 

L. Because you say you were frightened 
at the serpents. 

Isabel. And wouldn't you have been ? 

L. Not at those serpents. Nobody who 
really goes into the valley is ever frightened 
at them — they are so beautiful. 

Isabel {suddenly serious). But there's no 
real Valley of Diamonds, is there ? 

L. Yes, Isabel ; very real indeed. 

Florrie {reappearing). Oh, where ? Tell 
me about it. 

L. I cannot tell you a great deal about it ; 
only I know it is very different from Sind- 
bad's. In his valley, there was only a dia- 
mond lying here and there ; but, in the real 
valley, there are diafrnonds covering the 
grass in showers every morning, instead of 
dew : and there are clusters of trees, which 
look like lilac-trees ; but, in spring, all their 
blossoms are of amethyst. 

Florrie. But there can't be any serpents 
there, then? 

L. Why not? 

Florrie. Because they don't come into 
such beautiful places. 

L. I never said it was a beautiful place. 

Florrie. What ! not with diamonds 
strewed about it like dew ? 



i2 ttbe Etbics of tbe Duet* 

L. That's according to your fancy, Flor- 
rie. For myself, I like dew better. 

Isabel. Oh, but the dew won't stay ; it all 
dries ! 

L. Yes ; and it would be much nicer if 
the diamonds dried too, for the people in 
the valley have to sweep them off the grass, 
in heaps, whenever they want to walk on 
it ; and then the heaps glitter so, they hurt 
one's eyes. 

Florrie. Now you're just playing, you 
know. 

L. So are you, you know. 

Florrie. Yes, but you mustn't play. 

L. That's very hard, Florrie ; why mustn't 
I, if you may ? 

Florrie. Oh, I may, because I'm little, 
but you mustn't, because you're — {hesitates 
for a delicate expression of magnitude). 

L. (rudely taking the first that comes). 
Because I'm big ? No ; that's not the way of 
it at all, Florrie. Because you're little, you 
should have very little play ; and because 
I'm big I should have a great deal. 

Isabel and Florrie (both). No — no — no 
— no. That isn't it at all. (Isabel sola, quot- 
ing Miss Ingelow. ) ' ' The lambs play always 
— they know no better." (Putting her head 
very much on one side.) Ah, now — please 
— please — tell us true ; we want to know. 

L. But why do you want me to tell you 
true, any more than the man who wrote the 
"Arabian Nights"? 



Cbe Waller of 2>famon&0* 13 

Isabel. Because — because we like to know 
about real things ; and you can tell' us, and 
we can't ask the man who wrote the stories. 

L. What do you call real things ? 

Isabel. Now, you know ! Things that 
really are. 

L. Whether you can see them or not ? 

Isabel. Yes, if somebody else saw them. 

L. But if nobody has ever seen them ? 

Isabel (evading the point). Well, but, you 
know, if there were a real Valley of Dia- 
monds, somebody must have seen it. 

L. You cannot be so sure of that, Isabel. 
Many people go to real places, and never 
see them ; and many people pass through 
this valley, and never see it. 

Florrie. What stupid people they must 
be! 

L. No, Florrie. They are much wiser 
than the people who do see it. 

May. I think I know where it is. 

Isabel. Tell us more about it, and then 
well guess. 

L. Well. There's a great broad road, by 
a river-side, leading up into it. 

May (gravely cunning, with emphasis on 
the last word). Does the road really go up? 

L. You think it should go down into a 
valley ? No, it goes up ; this is a valley 
among the hills, and it is as high as the 
clouds, and is often full of them ; so that 
even the people who most want to see it, 
cannot, always. 



14 Cbe jEtbfcs ot tbe 2>ust 

Isabel. And what is the river beside the 
road like ? 

L. It ought to be very beautiful because 
it flows over diamond sand — only the water 
is thick and red. 

Isabel. Red water? 

L. It isn't all water. 

May. Oh, please never mind that, Isabel, 
just now ; I want to hear about the valley. 

L. So the entrance to it is very wide, 
under a steep rock ; only such numbers of 
people are always trying to get in, that they 
keep jostling each other, and manage it but 
slowly. Some weak ones are pushed back, 
and never get in at all ; and make great 
moaning as they go away : but perhaps 
they are none the worse in the end. 

May. And when one gets in, what is it 
like? 

L. It is up and down, broken kind of 
ground : the road stops directly ; and there 
are great dark rocks, covered all over with 
wild gourds and wild vines ; the gourds, if 
you cut them, are red, with black seeds, 
like watermelons, and look ever so nice ; 
and the people of the place make a red pot- 
tage of them : but you must take care not to 
eat any if you ever want to leave the valley 
(though I believe putting plenty of meal in 
it makes it wholesome). Then the wild 
vines have clusters of the color of amber ; 
and the people of the country say they are 
the grape of Eshcol ; and sweeter than 



Zbc Walleg of SMamonOs* 15 

honey : but, indeed, if anybody else tastes 
them, they are like gall. Then there are 
thickets of bramble, so thorny that they 
would be cut away directly, anywhere else ; 
but here they are covered with little cinque- 
foiled blossoms of pure silver ; and, for 
berries, they have clusters of rubies. Dark 
rubies, which you only see are red after 
gathering them. But you may fancy what 
blackberry parties the children have ! Only 
they get their frocks and hands sadly torn. 

Lily. But rubies can't spot one's frocks, 
as blackberries do ? 

L. No ; but 111 tell you what spots them 
— the mulberries. There are great forests 
of them, all up the hills, covered with silk- 
worms, some munching the leaves so loud 
that it is like mills at work ; and some 
spinning. But the berries are the blackest 
you ever saw ; and, wherever they fall, they 
stain a deep red ; and nothing ever washes 
it out again. And it is their juice, soaking 
through the grass, which makes the river so 
red, because all its springs are in this wood. 
And the boughs of the trees are twisted, as 
if in pain, like old olive branches ; and their 
leaves are dark. And it is in these forests 
that the serpents are ; but nobody is afraid 
of them. They have fine crimson crests, 
and they are wreathed about the wild 
branches, one in every tree, nearly ; and 
they are singing serpents, for the serpents 
are, in this forest, what birds are in ours. _ 



i6 Gbe Etbfcs of tbc Bust* 

Florrie. Oh, I don't want to go there at 
all, now. 

L. You would like it very much indeed, 
Florrie, if you were there. The serpents 
would not bite you ; the only fear would be 
of your turning into one ! 

Florrie. Oh, dear/ but that's worse. 

L. You wouldn't think so if you really 
were turned into one, Florrie ; you would 
be very proud of your crest. And as long 
as you were yourself (not that you could get 
there if you remained quite the little Florrie 
you are now), you would like to hear the 
serpents sing. They hiss a little through it, 
like the cicadas in Italy ; but they keep good 
time, and sing delightful melodies ; and 
most of them have seven heads, with throats 
which each take a note of the octave; so 
that they can sing chords — it is very fine 
indeed. And the fireflies fly round the edge 
of the forest all the night long ; you wade 
in fireflies, they make the fields look like a 
lake trembling with reflection of stars ; but 
you must take care not to touch them, for 
they are not like Italian fireflies, but burn, 
like real sparks. 

Florrie. I don J t like it at all ; I'll never 
go there. 

L. I hope not, Florrie ; or at least that 
you will get out again if you do. And it is 
very difficult to get out, for beyond these 
serpent forests there are great cliffs of dead 
gold, which form a labyrinth, winding 



Gbe Dalles of 2>iamon&s« 17 

always higher and higher, till the gold is all 
split asunder, by wedges of ice ; and gla- 
ciers, welded, half of ice seven times frozen, 
and half of gold seven times frozen, hang 
down from them, and fall in thunder, cleaving 
into deadly splinters, like the Cretan arrow- 
heads ; and into a mixed dust of snow and 
gold, ponderous, yet which the mountain 
whirlwinds are able to lift and drive in 
wreaths and pillars, hiding the paths with a 
burial cloud, fatal at once with wintry chill, 
and weight of golden ashes. So the wan- 
derers in the labyrinth fall, one by one, and 
are buried there : — yet, over the drifted 
graves, those who are spared climb to the 
last, through coil on coil of the path ; — for 
at the end of it they see the king of the val- 
ley, sitting on his throne : and beside him 
(but it is only a false vision), spectra of creat- 
ures like themselves, sit on thrones, from 
which they seem to look down on all the 
kingdoms of the world, and the glory of 
them. And on the canopy of his throne 
there is an inscription in fiery letters, which 
they strive to read, but cannot ; for it is 
written in words which are like the words 
of all languages, and yet are of none. Men 
say it is more like their own tongue to the 
English than it is to any other nation ; but 
the only record of it is by an Italian, who 
heard the king himself cry it as a war-cry, 
" Pape Satan, Pape Satan Aleppe." * 
* Dante, Inf. 7 1. ., 
2 



x8 Gbe Btbtcs of tbe Dust. 

Sibyl. But do they all perish there ? You 
said there was a way through the valley, 
and out of it. 

L. Yes ; but few find it. If any of them 
keep to the grass paths, where the diamonds 
are swept aside, and hold their hands over 
their eyes so as not to be dazzled, the grass 
paths lead forward gradually to a place 
where one sees a little opening in the golden 
rocks. You were at Chamouni last year, 
Sibyl ; did your guide chance to show you 
the pierced rock of the Aiguille du Midi ? 

Sibyl. No, indeed, we only got up from 
Geneva on Monday night ; and it rained all 
Tuesday ; and we had to be back at Geneva 
again, early on Wednesday morning. 

L. Of course. That is the way to see a 
country in a Sibylline manner, by inner 
consciousness : but you might have seen the 
pierced rock in your drive up, or down, if 
the clouds broke : not that there is much to 
see in it ; one of the crags of the aiguille- 
edge, on the southern slope of it, is struck 
sharply through, as by an awl, into a little 
eyelet hole; which yom may see, seven 
thousand feet above the valley (as the clouds 
flit past behind it, or leave the sky), first 
white, and then dark blue. Well, there's 
just such an eyelet hole in one of the upper 
crags of the Diamond Valley ; and, from a 
distance, you think that it is no bigger than 
the eye of a needle. But if you get up to 
it, they say you may drive a loaded camel 



Gbe Waller of Diamond 19 

through it, and that there are fine things on 
the other side, but I have never spoken with 
anybody who had been through. 

Sibyl. I think we understand it now. We 
will try to write it down, and think of it. 

L. Meantime, Florrie, though all that I 
have been telling you is very true, yet you 
must not think the sort of diamonds that 
people wear in rings and necklaces are 
found lying about on the grass. Would you 
like to see how they really are found ? 

Florrie. Oh, yes — yes. 

L. Isabel — or Lily — run up to my room 
and fetch me the little box with a glass lid 
out of the top drawer of the chest of drawers. 
(Race between Lily and Isabel. ) 

(Re-enter Isabel with the box, very much 
out of breath, Lily behind,) 

L. Why, you never can beat Lily in a 
race on the stairs, can you, Isabel ? 

Isabel {panting), Lily — beat me — ever 
so far — but she gave me — the box — to carry 
in. 

L. Take off the lid, then ; gently. 

Florrie {after peeping in, disappointed). 
There's only a great ugly brown stone ! 

L. Not much more than that, certainly, 
Florrie, if people were wise. But look, it is 
not a single stone ; but a knot of pebbles 
fastened together by gravel : and in the 
gravel, or compressed sand, if you look 
close you will see grains of gold glittering 
everywhere, all through ; and then, do you 



20 Cbe JBtbice of tbe Dust* 

see these two white beads, which shine, as 
if they had been covered with grease? 

Florrie. May I touch them ? 

L. Yes ; you will find they are not greasy, 
only very smooth. Well, those are the fata) 
jewels ; native here in their dust with gold 
so that you may see, cradled here together, 
the two great enemies of mankind, — the 
strongest of all malignant physical powers 
that have tormented our race. 

Sibyl. Is that really so ? I know they do 
great harm ; but do they not also do great 
good? 

L. My dear child, what good ? Was any 
woman, do you suppose, ever the better for 
possessing diamonds? but how many have 
been made base, frivolous, and miserable by 
desiring them? Was ever man the better 
for having coffers full of gold? but who 
shall measure the guilt that is incurred to 
fill them? Look into the history of any 
civilized nations ; analyze, with reference to 
this one cause of crime and misery, the lives 
and thoughts of their nobles, priests, mer- 
chants, and men of luxurious life. Every 
other temptation is at last concentrated into 
this : pride, and lust, and envy, and anger 
all give up their strength to avarice. The 
sin of the whole world is essentially the 
sin of Judas. Men do not disbelieve their 
Christ ; but they sell Him. 

Sibyl. But surely that is the fault of human 
nature? it is not caused by the accident, as 



Cbe Dalles of SHamonDs. 2 t 

it were, of there being a pretty metal, like 
gold, to be found by digging. If people 
could not find that, would they not find 
something else, and quarrel for it instead ? 

L. No. Wherever legislators have suc- 
ceeded in excluding, for a time, jewels and 
precious metals from among national pos- 
sessions, the national spirit has remained 
healthy. Covetousness is not natural to man 
— generosity is ; but covetousness must be 
excited by a special cause, as a given disease 
by a given miasma ; and the essential nature 
of a material for the excitement of covetous- 
ness is, that it shall be a beautiful thing 
which can be retained without a use. The 
moment we can use our possessions to any 
good purpose ourselves, the instinct of com- 
municating that use to others rises side by 
side with our power. If you caii read a 
book rightly, you will want others to hear 
it; if you can enjoy a picture rightly, you 
will want others to see it: learn how to 
manage a horse, a plough, or a ship, and 
you will desire to make your subordinates 
good horsemen, ploughmen, or sailors ; you 
will never be able to see the fine instrument 
you are master of abused; but once fix 
your desire on anything useless, and all the 
purest pride and folly in your heart will mix 
with the desire, and make you at last wholly 
inhuman, a mere ugly lump of stomach and 
suckers, like a cuttle-fish. 

Sibyl. But surely, these two beautiful 



22 Gbe jBtbiCB of tbe Dust* 

things, gold and diamonds, must have been 
appointed to some good purpose ? 

L. Quite conceivably so, my dear : as 
also earthquakes and pestilences ; but of 
such ultimate purposes we can have no sight. 
The practical, immediate office of the earth- 
quake and pestilence is to slay us, like 
moths ; and, as moths, we shall be wise to 
live out of their way. So, the practical, 
immediate office of gold and diamonds is 
the multiplied destruction of souls (in what- 
ever sense you have been taught to under- 
stand that phrase) ; and the paralysis of 
wholesome human effort and thought on 
the face of God's earth : and a wise nation 
will live out of the way of them. The 
money which the English habitually spend 
in cutting diamonds would, in ten years, if 
it were applied to cutting rocks instead, 
leave no dangerous reef nor difficult harbor 
round the whole island coast Great Britain 
would be a diamond worth cutting, indeed, 
a true piece of regalia. (Leaves this to their 
thoughts for a little while). Then, also, we 
poor mineralogists might sometimes have 
the chance of seeing a fine crystal of dia- 
mond unhacked by the jeweler. 

Sibyl. Would it be more beautiful uncut ? 

L. No ; but of infinite interest. We 
might even come to know something about 
the making of diamonds. 

Sibyl. I thought the chemists could make 
them already ? 



ttbe Waller of 2>iamon&6* 23 

L. In very small black crystals, yes ; but 
no one knows how they are formed where 
they are found ; or if indeed they are formed 
there at all. These, in my hand, look as if 
they had been swept down with the gravel 
and gold ; only we can trace the gravel and 
gold to their native rocks, but not the dia- 
monds. Read the account given of the dia- 
mond in any good work on mineralogy ; — 
you will find nothing but lists of localities of 
gravel, or conglomerate rock (which is only 
an old indurated gravel). Some say it was 
once a vegetable gum ; but it may have been 
charred wood ; but what one would like to 
know is, mainly, why charcoal should make 
itself into diamonds in India, and only into 
black lead in Borrowdale. 

Sibyl. Are they wholly the same, then ? 

L. There is a little iron mixed with our 
black lead ; but nothing to hinder its crys- 
tallization. Your pencils in fact are all 
pointed with formless diamond, though they 
would be h h h pencils to purpose, if it 
crystallized. 

Sibyl. But what ts crystallisation ? 

L. A pleasant question, when one's half 
asleep, and it has been tea-time these two 
hours. What thoughtless things girls are I 

Sibyl. Yes, we are ; but we want to know, 
for all that. 

L. My dear, it would take a week to tell 
you. 

Sibyl. Well, take it, and tell us. 



24 Gbe JEtbics of tbe Dust* 

L. But nobody knows anything; about it. 
Sibyl. Then tell us something that nobody 
knows. 

L. Get along with you, and tell Dora to 
make tea. 

(The house rises ; but of course the Lec- 
turer wanted to be forced to lecture- 
again, and was*) 



LECTURE 2. 

THE PYRAMID BUILDERS, 



LECTURE IL 

THE PYRAMID BUILDERS. 

In the targe Schoolroom, to which everybody has been 
summoned by ringing of the great bell, 

L. So you have all actually come to hear 
about crystallization ! I cannot conceive 
why, unless the little ones think that the 
discussion may involve some reference to 
sugar-candy. 

(Symptoms of high displeasure among 
the young e member rs of council, Isa- 
bel frowns severely at L., and shakes 
her head violently, ) 

My dear children, if you knew it, you 
are yourselves, at > this moment, as you 
sit in your ranks, nothing, in the eye 
of a mineralogist, but a lovely group of 
rosy sugar-candy, arranged by atomic 
forces. And even admitting you to be 
something more, you have certainly been 
crystallizing without knowing it Did not 
I hear a great hurrying and whispering, 
ten minutes ago, when you were late in from 
the playground; and thought you would 
not all be quietly seated by the time I was 

2 7 



28 ttbe Etbics of tbe Dust* 

ready : — besides some discussion about 
places — something about " it's not being fair 
that the little ones should always be near- 
est ? " Well, you were then all being 
crystallized. When you ran in from the 
garden, and against one another in the 
passages, you were in what mineralogists 
would call a state of solution, and gradual 
confluence ; when you got seated in those 
orderly rows, each in her proper place, you 
became crystalline. That is just what the 
atoms of a mineral do, if they can, when- 
ever they get disordered : they get into 
order again as soon as may be. 

I hope you feel inclined to interrupt me, 
and say, " But we know our places ; how do 
the atoms know theirs ? And sometimes 
we dispute about our places ; do the atoms 
— (and, besides, w r e don't like being com- 
pared to atoms at all) — never dispute about 
theirs ? " Two wise questions these, if you 
had a mind to put them ! it was long before 
I asked them myself, of myself. And I will 
not call you atoms any more. May I call 
you — let me see — " primary molecules"? 
( General dissent indicated in subdued but 
decisive murmurs.} No ! not even, in fa- 
miliar Saxon, " dust " ? 

(Pause, with expression on faces of 'sor- 
rowful doubt ; Lily gives voice to the 
general sentiment in a timid ' ' Please 
don't. ") 



Gbe pgramfo ^BuilDers* 29 

No, children, I won't call you that ; and 
mind, as you grow up, that you do not get 
into an idle and wicked habit of calling* 
yourselves that. You are something better 
than dust, and have other duties to do than 
ever dust can do ; and the bonds of affec- 
tion you will enter into are better than 
merely l ' getting into order. " But see to it, on 
the other hand, that you always behave at 
least as well as "dust : " remember, it is only 
on compulsion, and while it has no free per- 
mission to do as it likes, that it ever gets 
out of order; but sometimes, with some of 
us, the compulsion has to be the other way 
~-hasn't it ? {Remonstratory whispers, ex- 
pressive of opinion that the Lecturer is be* 
coming too personal.) I'm not looking at 
anybody in particular — indeed I am not. 
Nay, if you blush so, Kathleen, how can 
one help looking? Well go back to the 
atoms. 

" How do they know their places ? " you 
asked, or should have asked. Yes, and they 
have to do much more than know them : 
they have to find their way to them, and 
that quietly and at once, without running- 
against each other. 

We may, indeed, state it briefly thus : — 
Suppose you have to build a castle, with 
towers and roofs and buttresses, out of 
bricks of a given shape, and that these 
b r icks are all lying in a huge heap at the 
bottom, in utter confusion, upset out of 



30 Cbe JCtbice of tbe ©ust. 

carts at random. You would have to draw 
a great many plans, and count all your 
bricks, and be sure you had enough for this 
and that tower, before you began, and then 
you would have to lay your founda- 
tion, and add layer by layer, in order, 
slowly. 

But how would you be astonished in 
these melancholy days, when children don't 
read children's books, nor believe any more 
in fairies, if suddenly a real benevolent 
fairy, in a bright brick-red gown, were to 
rise in the midst of the red bricks, and to 
tap the heap of them with her wand, and 
say, "Bricks, bricks, to your places ! " and 
then you saw in an instant the whole heap 
rise in the air, like a swarm of red bees, 
and — you have been used to see bees make 
a honeycomb, and to think that strange 
enough, but now you would see the honey- 
comb make itself ! — You want to ask 
something, Florrie, by the look of your 
eyes. 

Florrie. Are they turned into real bees, 
with stings ? 

L. No, Florrie ; you are only to fancy 
flying bricks, as you saw the slates flying 
from the roof the other day in the storm ; 
only those slates didn't seem to know where 
they were going, and, besides, were going 
where they had no business : out my spell- 
bound bricks, though they have no wings, 
and, what is worse, no heads and no eyes, 



TLbe Pstamta 3Bufl&er$* 31 

yet find their way in the air just where they 
should settle, into towers and roofs, each 
flying to his place and fastening there at the 
right moment, so that every other one shall 
fit to him in his turn. 

Lily. But who are the fairies, then, who 
build the crystals ? 

L. There is one great fairy, Lily, who 
builds much more than crystals ; but she 
builds these also. I dreamed that I saw her 
building a pyramid, the other day, as she 
Used to do, for the Pharaohs. 

Isabel. But that was only a dream ? 

L. Some dreams are truer than some 
wakings, Isabel ; but I won't tell it you un- 
less you like. 

Isabel. Oh, please, please. 

L. You are all such wise children, there's 
no talking to you ; you won't believe any- 
thing. 

Lily. No, we are not wise, and we will 
believe anything, when you say we ought. 

L. Well, it came about this way. Sibyl, 
do you recollect that evening when we had 
been looking at your old cave by Cumae, 
and wondering why you didn't live there 
still : and then we wondered how old you 
were ; and Egypt said you wouldn't tell, 
and nobody else could tell but she; and 
you laughed — I thought very gayly for a 
Sibyl — and said you would harness a flock 
of cranes for us, and we might fly over to 
Egypt if we liked, and see. 



32 Gbe JEtbice of tbe Dust^ 

Sibyl. Yes, and you went, and couldn't 
find out after all ! 

L. Why, you know, Egypt had been just 
doubling that third pyramid of hers ; * and 
making a new entrance into it ; and a fine 
entrance it was ! First, we had to go 
through an ante-room, which had both its 
doors blocked up with stones ; and then we 
had three granite portcullises to pull up, 
one after another ; and the moment we had 
got under them, Egypt signed to somebody 
above ; and down they came again behind 
us, with a roar like thunder, only louder; 
then we got into a passage fit for nobody 
but rats, and Egypt wouldn't go any further 
herself, but said we might go on if we 
liked ; and so we came to a hole in the 
pavement, and then to a granite trap-door 
— and then we thought we had gone quite 
far enough, and came back, and Egypt 
laughed at us. 

Egypt. You would not have had me take 
my crown off, and stoop all the way down 
a passage fit only for rats ? 

L. It was not the crown, Egypt — you 
know that very well. It was the flounces 
that would not let you go any farther. I 
suppose, however, you wear them as typical 
of the inundation of the Nile, so it is all 
right. 

Isabel, Why didn't you take me with 

*Notei. 



Zbe pyramid ffiuflfcera 33 

you? Where rats can go, mice can. I 
wouldn't have come back, 

L. No, mousie ; you would have gone on 
by yourself, and you might have waked 
one of Pashfs cats,* and it would have 
eaten you. I was very glad you were not 
there. But after all this I suppose the im- 
agination of the heavy granite blocks and 
the underground ways had troubled me, and 
dreams are often shaped in a strange op- 
position to the impressions that have caused 
them ; and from all that we had been read- 
ing in Bunsen about stones that couldn't be 
lifted with levers, I began to dream about 
stones that lifted themselves with wings. 

Sibyl. Now you must just tell us all about 
it. 

L. I dreamed that I was standing beside 
the lake, out of whose clay the bricks wete 
made for the great pyramid of Asychis.f 
They had just been all finished, and were 
lying by the lake margin, in long ridges, 
like waves. It was near evening ; and aa, I 
looked towards the sunset, I saw a thmg 
like a dark pillar standing where the rock of 
the desert stoops to the Nile valley. I did 
not know there was a pillar there, and 
wondered at it ; and it grew larger, and 
glided nearer, becoming like the form of a 
man, but vast, and it did not move its feet, 
tut glided, like a pillar of sand. And ad it 

* Note iii t Note ii. 



34 Gbe JEtbics of tbe Bust* 

drew nearer, I looked by chance past it* 
towards the sun ; and saw a silver cloud, 
which was of all the clouds closest to the sun 
(and in one place crossed it), draw itself back 
from the sun, suddenly. And it turned, and 
shot towards the dark pillar ; leaping in an 
arch, like an arrow out of a bow. And I 
thought it was lightning ; but when it came 
near the shadowy pillar, it sank slowly 
down beside it, and changed into the 
shape of a woman, very beaTjtiful, and with 
a strength of deep calm in her blue eyes. 
She was robed to the feet with a white robe ; 
and above that, to her knees, by the cloud 
which I had seen across the sun; but all 
the golden ripples of it had become plumes, 
so that it had changed into two bright wings 
like those of a vulture, which wrapped round 
her to her knees. She had a weaver's shuttle 
hanging over her shoulder, by the thread of 
it, and in her left hand, arrows, tipped with 
fire. 

Isabel (clapping her hands). Oh ! it was 
Neith, it was Neith ! I know now. 

L. Yes ; it was Neith herself ; and as the 
two great spirits came nearer to me, I saw 
they were the Brother and Sister — the pil- 
lared shadow was the greater Pthah.* And 
I heard them speak, and the sound of their 
words was like a distant singing. I could 
not understand the words one by one ; yet 
their sense came to me ; and so I knew that 
* Note iii. 



XLbc pyramid JSuUDets. 35 

Neith had come down to see her brother's 
work, and the work that he had put into the 
mind of the king* to make his servants do. 
And she was displeased at it ; because she 
saw only pieces of dark clay* ; and no por- 
phyry, nor marble, nor any fair stone that 
men might engrave the figures of the gods 
upon. And she blamed her brother, and 
said, "Oh, Lord of truth! is this then thy 
will, that men should mold only four- 
square pieces of clay : and the forms of the 
gods no more?" Then the Lord of truth 
sighed, and said, "Oh! sister, in truth they 
do not love us ; why should they set up our 
images ? Let them do what they may, and 
not lie — let them make their clay four- 
square ; and labor ; and perish." 

Then Neith's dark blue eyes grew darker, 
and she said, "Oh, Lord of truth! why 
should they love us ? their love is vain ; or 
fear us ? for their fear is base. Yet let them 
testify of us, that they knew we lived for- 
ever." 

But the Lord of truth answered, "They 
know, and yet they know not. Let them 
keep silence ; for their silence only is truth." 

But Neith answered, ' ' Brother, wilt thou 
also makg league with Death, because Death 
is true ? Oh ! thou potter, who hast cast 
these human things from thy wheel, many 
to dishonor, and few to honor ; wilt thou 
not let them so much as see my face ; but 
slay them in slavery ? " 



36 Cbe JEtbiCB of tbe Bust* 

But Pthah only answered, "Let them 
build, sister, let them build." 

And Neith answered, "What shall they 
build, if I build not with them ? " 

And Pthah drew with his measuring rod 
upon the sand. And I saw suddenly, drawn 
on the sand, the outlines of great cities, and 
of vaults, and domes, and aqueducts, and 
bastions, and towers, greater than obelisks, 
covered with black clouds. And the wind 
blew ripples of sand amidst the lines that 
Pthah drew, and the moving sand was like 
the marching of men. But I saw that wher- 
ever Neith looked at the lines, they faded, 
and were effaced. 

"Oh, Brother ! " she said at last, " what 
is this vanity ? If I, who am Lady of wis- 
dom, do not mock the children of men, why 
shouldst thou mock them who art Lord 
of truth?'' But Pthah answered, "They 
thought to bind me ; and they shall be 
bound They shall labor in the fire for 
vanity." 

And Neith said, looking at the sand, 
t ' Brother, there is no true labor here — there 
is only weary life and wasteful death." 

And Pthah answered, "Is it not truer 
labor, sister, than thy sculpture of dreams ? " 

Then Neith smiled ; and stopped sud- 
denly. 

She looked to the sun ; its edge touched 
the horizon-edge of the desert. Then she 
looked to the long heaps of pieces of clay 



that lay, each with its blue shadow, by the 
lake shore. 

" Brother," she said, "how long will this 
pyramid of thine be in building ? " 

"Thoth will have sealed the scroll of the 
years ten times, before the summit is laid." 

"Brother, thou knowest not how to teach 
thy children to labor," answered Neith, 
" Look ! I must follow Phre beyond Atlas ; 
shall I build your pyramid for you before he 
goes down ?" And Pthah answered, "Yea, 
sister, if thou canst put thy winged shoulders 
to such work." And Neith drew herself to 
her height ; and I heard a clashing pass 
through the plumes of her wings, and the 
asp stood up on her helmet, and fire gath- 
ered in her eye. And she took one of the 
flaming arrows out of the sheaf in her left 
hand, and stretched it out over the heaps of 
clay. And they rose up like flights of 
locusts, and spread themselves in the air, 
so that it grew dark in a moment. Then 
Neith designed them places with her arrow 
point ; and they drew into ranks, like dark 
clouds laid level at morning Then Neith 
pointed with her arrow to the north, and to 
the south, and to the east, and to the west ; 
and the flying motes of earth drew asunder 
into four great ranked crowds ; and stood, 
one in the north, and one in the south, and 
•one in the east, and one in the west — one 
against another. Then Neith spread her 
Wings wide for an instant, and closed theia 



38 Zbc lEtbice of tbe 2>u$t* 

with a sound like the sound of a rushing 
sea; and waved her hand towards the 
foundation of the pyramid, where it was 
laid on the brow of the desert. And the four 
flocks drew together and sank down, like 
sea-birds settling to a level rock, and when 
they met, there was a sudden flame, as 
6road as the pyramid, and as high as the 
clouds ; and it dazzled me ; and I closed my 
eyes for an instant ; and when I looked 
again the pyramid stood on its rock, per- 
fect ; and purple with the light from the edge 
of the sinking sun. 

The younger Children {variously pleased). 
I'm so glad ! How nice ! But what did 
Pthah say ? 

L. Neith did not wait to hear what he 
would say. When I turned back to look at 
her, she was gone ; and I only saw the level 
white cloud form itself again, close to the 
arch of the sun as it sank. And as the last 
edge of the sun disappeared, the form of 
Pthah faded into a mighty shadow, and so 
passed away. 

Egypt. And was Neith's pyramid left ? 

L. Yes ; but you could not think, Egypt, 
what a strange feeling of utter loneliness 
came over me when the presence of the two 
gods passed away. It seemed as if I had 
never known what it was to be alone before ; 
and the unbroken line of the desert was ter- 
rible. 

Egypt. I used to feel that, when I was 



Cbe Psramifc ffiufl&ers, 39 

queen : sometimes I had to carve gods for 
company, all over my palace. I would fain 
have seen real ones, if I could. 

L. But listen a moment yet, for that was 
not quite all my dream. The twilight drew 
swiftly to the dark, and I could hardly see 
the great pyramid ; when there came a 
heavy murmuring sound in the air ; and a 
horned beetle, with terrible claws, fell on 
the sand at my feet, with a blow like the 
beat of a hammer. Then it stood up on its 
hind claws, and waved its pincers at me : 
and its fore claws became strong arms, and 
hands ; one grasping real iron pincers, and 
the other a huge hammer ; and it had a hel- 
met on its head, without any eyelet holes, 
that I could see. And its two hind claws 
became strong crooked legs, with feet bent 
inwards. And so there stood by me a dwarf, 
in glossy black armor, ribbed and embossed 
like a beetle's back, leaning on his hammer. 
And I could not speak for wonder ; but he 
spoke with a murmur like the dying away 
of a beat upon a bell. He said, "1 will 
make Neith's great pyramid small. I am 
the lower Pthah ; and have power over fire. 
I can wither the strong things, and strength- 
en the weak ; and everything that is great 
I can make small, and everything that is 
little I can make great." Then he turned to 
the angle of the pyramid and limped 
towards it. And the pyramid grew deep 
purple ; and then red like blood, and then 



40 Cbe Etbfca of tbc Bust* 

pale rose-color like fire. And I saw that 
it glowed with fire from within. And the 
lower Pthah touched it with the hand 
that held the pincers ; and it sank down 
like the sand in an hour-glass, — then drew 
itself together, and sank, still, and became 
nothing, it seemed to me ; but the armed 
dwarf stooped down, and took it into 
his hand, and brought it to me saying, 
"Everything that is great I can make like 
this pyramid ; and give into men's hands to 
destroy." And I saw that he had a little 
pyramid in his hand, with as many courses 
in it as the large one ; and built like that,— » 
only so small. And because it glowed still, 
I was afraid to touch it ; but Pthah said, 
"Touch it — for I have bound the fire within 
it, so that it cannot burn." So I touched it, 
and took it into my own hand ; and it was 
•cold; only red, like a ruby. And Pthah 
laughed, and became like a beetle again, 
and buried himself in the sand, fiercely ; 
throwing it back over his shoulders. And it 
seemed to me as if he would draw me down 
with him into the sand ; and I started back, 
and woke holding the little pyramid so fast 
in my hand that it hurt me. 

Egypt. Holding what in your hand ? 

L. The little pyramid. 

Egypt. Neith's pyramid ? 

L. Neith's, I believe ; though not built for 
Asychis. I know only that it is a little rosy 
transparent pyramid, built of more courses 



XTbe iPEtamto 3BuU&et0* 41 

cf bricks than I can count, it being* made so 
small. You don't believe me, of course, 
Egyptian infidel ; but there it is. {Giving 
crystal of rose Fluor.) 

{Confused examination by crowded audi" 
ence, over each other's shoulders and 
under each other's arms. Disappoint- 
mentbegins to manifest itself ) 

Sibyl {not quite knowing why she and 
ethers are disappointed). But you showed us 
this the other day. 

L. Yes ; but you would not look at it the 
other day. 

Sibyl. But was all that fine dream only 
about this ? 

L. What finer thing could a dream be 
about than this ? It is small, if you will ; 
but when you begin to think of things 
rightly, the ideas of smallness and largeness 
pass away. The making of this pyramid 
was in reality just as wonderful as the dream 
I have been telling you, and just as incom- 
prehensible. It was not, I suppose, as 
swift, but quite as grand things are done 
as swiftly. When Neith makes crystals of 
snow it needs a great deal more marshaling 
of the atoms, by he r flaming arrows, than it 
does to make crystals like this one ; and that 
is done in a moment. 

Egypt. But how you do puzzle us ! Why 
do you say Neith does it ? You don't mean 
that she is a real spirit, do you ? 



42 Cbe JEtbics of tbc Dust, 

L. What /mean, is of little consequence. 
What the Egyptians meant, who called her 
"Neith," — or Homer, who called her " Athe- 
na," — or Solomon, who called her by a word 
which the Greeks render as "Sophia," you 
must judge for yourselves. But her testi- 
mony is always the same, and all nations 
have received it: "I was by Him as one 
brought up with Him, and I was daily His 
delight ; rejoicing in the habitual parts of the 
earth, and my delights were with the sons of 
men. " 

Mary. But is not that only a personifica- 
tion ? 

L. If it be, what will you gain by unper- 
sonifying it, or what right have you to do 
so? Cannot you accept the image given 
you, in its life ; and listen, like children, to 
the words which chiefly belong to you as 
children : "I love them that love me, and 
those that seek me early shall find me" ? 

(They are all quiet for a minute or two • 
questions begin to appear in their eyes,) 

I cannot talk to you any more to-day. 
Take that rose-crystal away with you, and 

t hink. 



LECTURE 3. 

THE CRYSTAL LIFE. 



LECTURE 

THE CRYSTAL LIFE. 

A very dull Lecture, willfully brought upon themselves by 
the elder children. Some of the young ones have, how- 
ever, managed to get in by mistake* Scene, the school- 
room. 

•> 

L. So I am to stand up here merely to be 
asked questions, to-day, Miss Mary, am I ? 

Mary. Yes ; and you must answer them 
plainly ; without telling us any more stories. 
You are quite spoiling the children : the poor 
little things' heads are turning round like 
kaleidoscopes ; and they don't know in the 
least what you mean. Nor do we old ones 
either, for that matter: to-day you must 
really tell us nothing but facts. 

L. I am sworn ; but you won't like it a 
bit. 

Mary. Now, first of all, what do you mean 
by " bricks" ? — Are the smallest particles of 
minerals all of some accurate shape, like 
bricks ? 

L. I do not know, Miss Mary ; I do not 
even know if anybody knows. The small- 
est atoms which are visibly and practically 
put together to make large crystals, may 

45 



46 XTbe Btbtcs of tbe 2>ust* 

better be described as ' ' limited in fixed direc- 
tions w than as " of fixed forms." But I can 
tell you nothing clear about ultimate atoms ; 
you will find the idea of little bricks, or, per- 
haps, of little spheres, available for all the 
uses you will have to put it to. 

Mary. Well, it's very provoking* ; one 
seems always to be stopped just when one 
is coming to the very thing one wants to 
know. 

L. No, Mary, for we should not wish to 
know anything but what is easily and as- 
suredly knowable. There's no end to it. 
If I could show you, or myself, a group of 
ultimate atoms, quite clearly, in this magni- 
fying glass, we should both be presently 
vexed because we could not break them in 
two pieces, and see their insides. 

Mary. Well, then, next, what do you mean 
by the flying of the bricks ? What is it the 
atoms do, that is like flying ? 

L. When they are dissolved, or uncrystal- 
lized, they are really separated from each 
other, like a swarm of gnats in the air, or 
like a shoal of fish in the sea ; — generally at 
about equal distances. In currents of solu- 
tions, or at different depths of them, one 
part may be more full of the dissolved 
atoms than another ; but on the whole, you 
may think of them as equidistant, like the 
spots in the print of your gown. If they are 
separated by force of heat only, the sub- 
stance is said to be melted ; if they are sep- 



Gbe Crystal Xffe* 47 

arated by any other substance, as particles 
of sugar by water, they are said to be " dis- 
solved." Note this distinction carefully, all 
of you. 

Dora. I will be very particular. When 
next you tell me there isn't sugar enough in 
your tea, I will say, " It is not yet dissolved, 
sir." 

L. I tell you what shall be dissolved, Miss 
Dora ; and that's the present parliament, if 
the members get too saucy. 

(Dora folds her hands and casts down 
her eyes. ) 

L. {proceeds in state). Now, Miss Mary, 
you know already, I believe, that nearly 
everything will melt, under a sufficient heat, 
like wax. Limestone melts (under pressure); 
sand melts ; granite melts ; the lava of a 
volcano is a mixed mass of many kinds of 
rocks, melted : and any melted substance 
nearly always, if not always, crystallizes as 
it cools ; the more slowly the more perfect- 
ly. Water melts at what we call the freez- 
ing, but might just as wisely, though not as 
conveniently, call the melting, point ; and 
radiates as it cools into the most beautiful 
of all known crystals. Glass melts at a 
greater heat, and will crystallize, if you will 
let it cool slowly enough, in stars, much 
like snow. Gold needs more heat to melt 
it, but crystallizes also exquisitely, as I will 
presently show you. Arsenic and sulphur 
crystallizes from their vapors. Now in any 



48 Gbe Etbfcs of tbe 2>U8t* 

of these cases, either of melted, dissolved, or 
vaporous bodies, the particles are usually 
separated from each other, either by heat 
or by an intermediate substance ; and in 
crystallizing they are both brought nearer 
to each other, and packed, so as to fit as 
closely as possible : the essential part of 
the business being not the bringing together, 
but the packing. Who packed your trunk 
for you, last holidays, Isabel ? 

Isabel. Lily does, always. 

L. And how much can you allow for 
Lily's good packing, in guessing what will 
go into the trunk ? 

Isabel. Oh ! I bring twice as much as the 
trunk holds. Lily always gets everything in- 

Lily. Ah ! but, Isey, if you only knew 
what a time it takes ! and since you've had 
those great hard buttons on your frocks, I 
can't do anything with them. Buttons 
won't go anywhere, you know. 

L. Yes, Lily, it would be well if she only 
knew what a time it takes ; and I wish any 
of us knew what a time crystallization takes, 
for that is consummately fine packing. The 
particles of the rock are thrown down, just 
as Isabel brings her things — in a heap ; and 
innumerable Lilies, not of the valley, but of 
the rock, come to pack them. But it takes 
such a time ! 

However, the best — out and out the best 
— way of understanding the thing, is to crys- 
tallize yourselves, 



Zbc Crystal Xtfe. 49 

The Audience. Ourselves ! 

L. Yes ; not merely as you did the other 
day, carelessly on the schoolroom forms ; 
but carefully and finely, out in the play- 
ground. You can play at crystallization 
there as much as you please. 

Kathleen and Jessie. Oh ! how ? — how ? 

L. First you must put yourselves together 
as close as you can, in the middle of the 
grass, and form for first practice, any figure 
you like. 

Jessie. Any dancing figure, do you mean ? 

L. No ; I mean a square, or a cross, or 
a diamond. Any figure you like, standing 
close together. You had better outline it 
first on the turf, with sticks, or pebbles, so 
as to see that it is rightly drawn ; then get 
into it and enlarge or diminish it at one side, 
till you are all quite in it, and no empty 
space left. 

Dora. Crinoline and all ? 

L. The crinoline may stand eventually 
for rough crystalline surface, unless you pin 
it in ; and then you may make a polished 
crystal of yourselves. 

Lily. Oh, we'll pin it in — we'll pin it in 1 

L. Then, when you are all in the figure, 
let every one note her place, and who is 
next her on each side ; and let the outsiders 
count how many places they stand from the 
corners. 

Kathleen. Yes, yes, — and then? 

L. Then you must scatter all over the 
4 



50 Cbe JEtbice of tbe 2>ust 

playground — right over it from side to side, 
and end to end ; and put yourselves all at 
equal distances from each other, everywhere. 
You needn't mind doing it very accurately, 
but so as to be nearly equidistant ; not less 
than about three yards apart from each other 
on every side. 

Jessie. We can easily cut pieces of string 
of equal length, to hold. And then ? 

L. Then, at a given signal, let everybody 
walk, at the same rate, towards the outlined 
figure in the middle. You had better sing 
as you walk ; that will keep you in good 
time. And as you close in towards it, let 
each take her place, and the next comers fit 
themselves in beside the first ones, till you 
are all in the figure again. 

Kathleen. Oh ! how we shall run against 
each other. What fun it will be ! 

L. No, no, Miss Katie; I can't allow any 
running against each other. The atoms 
never do that, whatever human creatures 
do. You must all know your places, and 
find your way to them without jostling. 

Lily. But how ever shall we do that ? 

Isabel. Mustn't the ones in the middle be 
the nearest, and the outside ones farther off 
— when we go away to scatter, I mean ? 

L. Yes ; you must be very careful to keep 
your order ; you will soon find out how to 
do it ; it is only like soldiers forming square, 
except that each must stand still in her place 
as she reaches it, and the others come round 



Cbe Crystal Xffe* 5t 

her ; and you will have much more com- 
plicated figures, afterwards to form, than 
squares. 

Isabel. I'll put a stone at my place : then 
I shall know it. 

L. You might each nail a bit of paper to 
the turf, at your place, with your name up- 
on it : but it would be of no use, for if you 
don't know your places, you will make a 
fine piece of business of it, while you are 
looking for your names. And, Isabel, if with 
a little head and eyes, and a brain (all of 
them very good and serviceable of their kind, 
as such things go), you think you cannot 
know your place, without a stone at it, after 
examining it well, — how do you think each 
atom knows its place, when it never was 
there before, and there's no stone at it ? 

Isabel. But does every atom know its 
place ? 

L. How else could it get there ? 

Mary. Are they not attracted into their 
places ? 

L. Cover a piece of paper with spots, at 
equal intervals ; and then imagine any kind 
of attraction you choose, or any law of at- 
traction, to exist between the spots, and try 
how, on that permitted supposition, you can 
attract them into the figure of a Maltese 
cross, in the middle of the paper. 

Mary (having tried it). Yes ; I see that I 
cannot : — one would need all kinds of at- 
tractions, in different ways, at different 



52 Cbe Etbfcs of tbe Bust* 

places. But you do not mean that the atoms 
are alive ? 

L. What is it to be alive ? 

Dora. There now ; you're going to be 
provoking, I know. 

L. I do not see why it should be provok* 
ing to be asked what it is to be alive. Do 
you think you don't know whether you are 
alive or not ? 

(Isabel skips to the end of the room and 
back, ) 

L. Yes, Isabel, that's all very fine ; and 
you and I may call that being alive : but a 
modern philosopher calls it being in a 
"mood of motion." It requires a certain 
quantity of heat to take you to the side^ 
board ; and exactly the same quantity to 
bring you back again. That's all. 

Isabel. No, it isn't. And besides, I'm not 
hot. 

L. I am, sometimes, at the way they talk. 
However, you know, Isabel, you might have 
been a particle of a mineral, and yet have 
been carried round the room, or anywhere 
else, by chemical forces, in the liveliest way. 

Isabel. Yes ; but I wasn't carried : I car- 
ried myself. 

L. The fact is, mousie, the difficulty is 
not so much to say what makes a thing 
alive, as what makes it a Self. As soon as 
you are shut off from the rest of the universe 
into a Self, you begin to be alive. 



Cbe Crystal %ifc. 53 

Violet (indginant). Oh, surely — surely 
that cannot be so. Is not all the life of the 
soul in communion, not separation ? 

L. There can be no communion where 
there is no distinction. But we shall be in 
an abyss of metaphysics presently, if we 
don't look out ; and besides, we must not be 
too grand, to-day, for the younger children. 
Well be grand, some day, by ourselves, if 
we must. (The younger children are not 
pleased, and prepare to remonstrate ; but know- 
ing by experience, that all conversations in 
which the word " communio?i" occurs, are 
unintelligible, think better o/it.) Meantime, 
for broad answer about the atoms. I do not 
think we should use the word " life/' of any 
energy which does not belong to a given 
form. A seed, or an egg, or a young animal, 
are properly called "alive" with respect to 
the force belonging to those forms, which 
consistently develops that form, and no 
other. But the force which crystallizes a 
mineral appears to be chiefly external, and 
it does not produce an entirely determinate 
and individual form, limited in size, but only 
an aggregation, in which some limiting laws 
must be observed. 

Mary. But I do not see much difference, 
that way, between a crystal and a tree. 

L. Add, then, that the mode of the energy 
in a living thing implies a continual change 
in its elements ; and a period for its end. 
So you may define life by its attached nega- 



54 Gbc JEtbics of tbe Dust. 

tive, death ; and still more by its attached 
positive, birth. But I won't be plagued any 
more about this, just now ; if you choose 
to think the crystals alive, do, and welcome. 
Rocks have always been called "living" in 
their native place. 

Mary. There's one question more; then 
I've done. 

L. Only one ? 

Mary. Only one. 

L. But if it is answered won't it turn into 
two? 

Mary. No ; I think it will remain single,, 
and be comfortable. 

L. Let me hear it. 

Mary. You know, we are to crystallize 
ourselves out of the whole playground. 
Now, what playground have the minerals ? 
Where are they scattered before they are 
crystallized ; and where are the crystals 
generally made ? 

L. That sounds to me more like three 
questions than one, Mary. If it is onl}r 
one, it is a wide one. 

Mary. I did not say anything about the 
width of it 

L. Well, I must keep it within the best 
compass I can. When rocks either dry from 
a moist state, or cool from a heated state, 
they necessarily alter in bulk ; and cracks, or 
open spaces, form in them in all directions. 
These cracks must be filled up with solid 
matter, or the rock would eventually be* 



Cbe Crystal TLite. 55 

come a ruinous heap. So, sometimes by 
water, sometimes by vapor, sometimes no- 
body knows how, crystallizable matter is 
brought from somewhere, and fastens itself 
in these open spaces, so as to bind the rock 
together again with crystal cement. A vast 
quantity of hollows are formed in lavas by 
bubbles of gas, just as the holes are left in 
bread well-baked. In process of time these 
cavities are generally filled with various 
crystals. 

Mary. But where does the crystallizing 
substance come from ? 

L. Sometimes out of the rock itself; 
sometimes from below or above, through the 
veins. The entire substance of the contract- 
ing rock may be filled with liquid, pressed 
into it so as to fill every pore ; — or with 
mineral vapor ; — or it may be so charged at 
one place, and empty at another. There's 
no end to the "may be's." But all that you 
need fancy, for our present purpose, is that 
hollows in the rocks, like the caves in Derby- 
shire, are traversed by liquids or vapor con- 
taining certain elements in a more or less 
free or separate state, which crystallize on 
the cave walls. 

Sibyl. There now ; — Mary has had all her 
questions answered; it's my turn to have 
mine. 

L. Ah, there's a conspiracy among you, I 
see. I might have guessed as much. 

Do&a. I'm sure you ask us questions 



56 Zbe JEtbice of tbe Bust, 

enough ! How can you have the heart, 
when you dislike so to be asked them your* 
self? 

L. My dear child, if people do not answer 
questions, it does not matter how many 
they are asked, because they've no trouble 
with them. Now, when I ask you questions, 
I never expect to be answered ; but when 
you ask me, you always do ; and it's not fair. 

Dora. Very well, we shall understand, 
next time. 

Sibyl. No, but seriously, we all want to 
ask one thing- more, quite dreadfully. 

L. And I don't want to be asked it, quite 
dreadfully ; but you'll have your own way, 
of course. 

Sibyl. We none of us understand about 
the lower Pthah. It was not merely yester- 
day ; but in all we have read about him in 
Wilkinson, or in any book, we cannot un- 
derstand what the Egyptians put their god 
into that ugly little deformed shape for. 

L. Well, I'm glad its that sort of ques- 
tion ; because I can answer anything I like 
to that. 

Egypt. Anything you like will do quite 
well for us ; we shall be pleased with the 
answer, if you are. 

L. I am not so sure of that, most gracious 
queen ; for 1 must begin by the statement 
that queens seem to have disliked all sorts 
of work, in those days, as much as son*e 
queens dislike sewing to-day. 



Zbc Crystal Xife* 57 

Egypt. Now, it's too bad ! and just when 
I was trying to say the civilest thing I 
could ! 

L. But, Egypt, why did you tell me you 
disliked sewing so ? 

Egypt. Did not I show you how the thread 
cuts my fingers ? and I always get cramp, 
somehow, in my neck, if I sew long. 

L. Well, I suppose the Egyptian queens 
thought everybody got cramp in their neck, 
if they sewed long ; and that thread always 
cut people's fingers. At all events every 
kind of manual labor was despised both by 
them, and the Greeks ; and, while they 
owned the real good and fruit of it, they yet 
held it a degradation to all who practiced it. 
Also, knowing the laws of life thoroughly, 
they perceived that the special practice 
necessary to bring any manual art to per- 
fection strengthened the body distortedly ; 
one energy or member gaining at the ex- 
pense of the rest. They especially dreaded 
and despised any kind of work that had to 
be done near fire: yet feeling what they 
owed to it in metal-work, as the basis of all 
other work, they expressed this mixed rever- 
ence and scorn in the varied types of the 
lame Hephaestus, and the lower Pthah. 

Sibyl. But what did you mean by making 
him say "Everything great I can make small, 
and everything small great"? 

L. I had my own separate meaning in 
that We have seen in modern times the 



58 Gbe Btbfcs of tbe Dust 

power of the lower Pthah developed in a 
separate way, which no Greek nor Egyptian 
could have conceived. It is the character 
of pure and eyeless manual labor to con- 
ceive everything as subjected to it ; and in 
reality to disgrace and diminish all that is 
so subjected, aggrandizing itself, and the 
thought of itself, at the expense of all noble 
things. I heard an orator, and a good one 
too, at the Working Men's College, the other 
day, make a great point in a description of 
our railroads ; saying, with grandly con- 
ducted emphasis, "They have made man 
greater, and the world less." His working 
audience were mightily pleased ; they 
thought it so very fine a thing to be made 
bigger themselves ; and all the rest of the 
world less. I should have enjoyed asking 
them (but it would have been a pity — they 
were so pleased), how much less they would 
like to have the world made ; — and whether, 
at present, those of them really felt the big- 
gest men, who lived in the least houses. 

Sibyl. But then, why did you make Pthah 
say that he could make weak things strong, 
and small things great ? 

L. My dear, he is a boaster and self-as- 
sertor, by nature ; but it is so far true. For 
instance, we used to have a fair in our 
neighborhood — a very fine fair we thought it. 
You never saw such an one ; but if you look 
at the engraving of Turner's "St Catherine's 
Hill," you will see what it was like. There 



Zbe (Brutal %ite. 59 

were curious booths, carried on poles ; and 
peep-shows ; and music, with plenty of drums 
and cymbals ; and much barley-sugar and 
ginger bread, and the like : and in the alleys 
of this fair the London populace would enjoy 
themselves, after their fashion, very thor- 
oughly. Well, the little Pthah set to work 
upon it one day ; he make the wooden poles 
into iron ones, and put them across, like his 
own crooked legs, so that you always fall 
over them if you don't look where you are 
going; and he turned all the canvas into 
panes of glass, and put it up on his iron 
cross-poles ; and made all the little booths 
into one great booth ; — and people said it 
was very fine, and a new style of architec- 
ture ; and Mr. Dickens said nothing was 
ever like it in Fairy-land, which was very 
true. And then the little Pthah set to work 
to put fine fairings in it ; and he painted the 
Nineveh bulls afresh, with the blackest eyes 
he could paint (because he had none him- 
self), and he got the angels down from 
Lincoln choir, and gilded their wings like 
his gingerbread of old times ; and he sent 
for everything else he could think of, and 
put it in his booth. There are the casts of 
Niobe and her children ; and the Chim- 
panzee ; and the wooden Caffres and New- 
Zealanders ; and the Shakespeare House ; 
and Le Grand Blondin, and Le Petit Blondin ; 
and Handel ; and Mozart ; and no end of 
Shops, and buns, and beer j and all the little- 



60 Gbe JEtbics of tbe Bust 

Pthah-worshippers say, never was anything 
so sublime ! 

Sibyl. Now, do you mean to say you 
never go to these Crystal Palace concerts ; 
they're as good as good can be. 

L. I don't go to the thundering things 
with a million of bad voices in them. When 
I want a song, I get Julia Mannering and 
Lucy Bertram and Counselor Pleydell to 
sing "We be three poor Mariners " to me; 
then I've no headache next morning. But 
I do go to the smaller concerts, when I can ; 
for they are very good, as you say, Sibyl : 
and I always get a reserved seat somewhere 
near the orchestra, where I am sure I can 
see the kettle-drummer drum. 

Sibyl. Now do be serious, for one minute. 

L. I am serious — never was more so. 
You know one can't see the modulation of 
violinists' fingers, but one can see the vibra- 
tion of the drummer's hand : and it's lovely. 

Sibyl. But fancy going to a concert, not 
io hear, but to see ! 

L. Yes, it is very absurd. The quite 
right thing, I believe, is to go there to talk. 
I confess, however, that in most music, 
when very well done, the doing of it is to 
me the chiefly interesting part of the busi- 
ness. I'm always thinking how good it 
would be for the fat, supercilious people, 
who care so little for their half-crown's worth, 
io be set to try and do a half-crown's worth 
of anything like it 



tTbe Crystal lite* 61 

Mary. But surely that Crystal Palace is a 
great good and help to the people of Lon- 
don ? 

L. The fresh air of the Norwood hills is, 
or was, my dear ; but they are spoiling that 
with smoke as fast as they can. And the- 
palace (as they call it) is a better place for 
them, by much, than the old fair ; and it is 
always there, instead of for three days only ; 
and it shuts up at proper hours of night. 
And good use may be made of the things in 
it, if you know how : but as for its teaching 
the people, it will teach them nothing but 
the lowest of the lower Pthah's work — noth- 
ing but hammer and tongs. I saw a won- 
derful piece of his doing in the place, only 
the other day. Some unhappy metal-worker 
— I am not sure if it was not a metal- work- 
ing firm — had taken three years to make a 
Golden eagle. 

Sibyl. Of real gold ? 

L. No ; of bronze, or copper, or some of 
their foul patent metals — it is no matter 
what. I meant a model of our chief British 
eagle. Every feather was made separately ; 
and every filament of every feather sepa- 
rately, and so joined on ; and all the quills 
modeled of the right length and right sec- 
tion, and at last the whole cluster of them 
fastened together. You know, children, I 
don't think much of my own drawing ; but 
take my proud word for once, that when I 
go to the Zoological Gardens, and happen 



62 Cbe JEtbics of tbc 2>u*t* 

to have a bit of chalk in my pocket, and the 
Gray Harpy will sit, without screwing his 
head round, for thirty seconds, — I can do a 
better thing of him in that time than the 
three years' work of this industrious firm. 
For, during the thirty seconds, the eagle is 
my object, — not myself; and during the 
three years, the firm's object, in every fiber 
of bronze it made, was itself, and not the 
eagle. That is the true meaning of the little 
Pthah's having no eyes — he can see only 
himself. The Egyptian beetle was not quite 
the full type of him ; our northern ground 
beetle is a truer one. It is beautiful to see 
it at work, gathering its treasures (such as 
they are) into little round balls ; and push- 
ing them home with the strong wrong end 
of it, — head downmost all the way, — -like a 
modern political economist with his ball of 
capital, declaring that a nation can stand on 
its vices better than on its virtues. But 
away with you, children, now, for I'm get- 
ting cross. 

Dora. I'm going downstairs ; I shall take 
care, at any rate, that there are no little 
Pthahs in the kitchen cupboards. 



LECTURE 4. 

THE CRYSTAL ORDERS. 



, LECTURE IV. 

THE CRYSTAL ORDERS. 

A working Lecture in the large Schoolroom ; with ex* 
perimental Interludes. The great bell has rung un* 
expectedly. 

Kathleen {entering disconsolate, though 
first at the summons). Oh dear, oh dear, what 
a day ! Was ever anything so provoking I 
just when we wanted to crystallize ourselves; 
— and I'm sure it's going to rain all day long. 

L. So am I, Kate. The sky has quite an 
Irish way with it. But I don't see why Irish 
girls should also look so dismal. Fancy 
that you don't want to crystallize yourselves : 
you didn't, the day before yesterday, and 
you were not unhappy when it rained then. 

Florrie. Ah ! but we do want to-day ; 
and the rain's so tiresome. 

L. That is to say, children, #iat because 
you are all the richer by the expectation of 
playing at a new game, you choose to make 
yourselves unhappier than when you had 
nothing to look forward to, but the old ones. 

Isabel. But then, to have to wait — wait 
— wait ; and before we've tried it ; — and per- 
haps it will rain to-morrow, too ! 

5 65 



66 Zbc JEtbiCd of tbe Dust* 

L. It may also rain the day after to- 
morrow. We can make ourselves uncom- 
fortable to any extent with perhapses, Isabel. 
You may stick perhapses into your little 
minds, like pins, till you are as uncomfort- 
able as the Lilliputians made 'Gulliver with 
their arrows, when he would not lie quiet. 

Isabel. But what are we to do to-day ? 

L. To be quiet, for one thing, like Gulli- 
ver when he saw there was nothing better to 
be done. And to practice patience. I can 
tell you, children, that requires nearly as 
much practicing as music ; and we are con- 
tinually losing our lessons when the master 
comes. Now, to-day, here's a nice, little 
adagio lesson for us, if we play it properly. 

Isabel. But I don't like that sort of les- 
son. I can't play it properly. 

L. Can you play a Mozart sonata yet, 
Isabel? The more need to practice. All 
one's life is a music, if one touches the notes 
rightly, and in time. But there must be no 
hurry. 

Kathleen. I'm sure there's no music in 
stopping in on a rainy day. 

L. There's no music in a "rest," Katie, 
that I know of : but there's the making of 
music in it. And people are always missing 
that part of the life-melody ; and scrambling 
on without counting — not that it's easy to 
count ; but nothing on which so much de- 
pends ever is easy. People are always talk- 
ing of perseverance, and courage, and forti- 



Zbe Grgstal ©rDers. 67 

tude ; but patience is the finest and worthiest 
part of fortitude, — and the rarest, too. I 
know twenty persevering girls for one 
patient one : but it is only that twenty-first 
who can do her work, out and out, or enjoy 
it For patience lies at the root of all pleas- 
ures, as well as of all powers. Hope her- 
self ceases to be happiness, when Impatience 
companions her. 

Isabel and Lily sit down on the floor and 
fold their hands. The others follow 
their example.} 

Good children ! but that's not quite the 
way of it, neither. Folded hands are not 
necessarily resigned ones. The Patience 
who really smiles at grief usually stands, or 
walks, or even runs : she seldom sits ; 
though she may sometimes have to do it 
for many a day, poor thing, by monuments ; 
or like Chaucer's, "with face pale, upon a 
hill of sand. " But we are not reduced to that 
to-day. Suppose we use this calamitous 
forenoon to choose the shapes we are to 
crystallize into ? we know nothing about 
them yet. 

The pictures of resignation rise from the 
floor not in the patientest manner. Gen* 
eral applause. ) 
Mary {with one or two others). The very 
thing we wanted to ask you about ! 

Lily. We looked at the books about crys- 
tals, but they are so dreadful. 



68 XTbe fitbfcs of tbe Dust* 

L. Well, Lily, we must go through a little 
dreadfulness, that's a fact : no road to any- 
good knowledge is wholly among the lilies 
and the grass ; there is rough climbing to be 
done always. But the crystal-books are a 
little too dreadful, most of them, I admit ; 
and we shall have to be content with very 
little of their help. You know, as you can- 
not stand on each other's heads, you can 
only make yourselves into the sections of 
crystals, — the figures they show when they 
are cut through ; and we will choose some 
that will be quite easy. You shall make 
diamonds of yourselves — 

Isabel. Oh, no, no ! we won't be dia- 
monds, please. 

L. Yes, you shall, Isabel ; they are very 
pretty things, if the jewelers and the kings 
and queens, would only let them alone. 
You shall make diamonds of yourselves, 
and rubies of yourselves, and emeralds ; and 
Irish diamonds ; two of those* — with Lily in 
the middle of one, which will be very 
orderly, of course ; and Kathleen in the 
middle of the other, for which we will hope 
the best ; and you shall make Derbyshire 
spar of yourselves, and Iceland spar, and 
gold, and silver, and — Quicksilver there's, 
enough of in you, without any making. 

Mary. Now, you know, the children will 
be getting quite wild : we must really get 
pencils and paper, and begin properly. 

L. Wait a minute, Miss Mary ; I think, as 



Zbe Ctfistal Qrtevs. 69 

we've the schoolroom clear to-day, I'll try- 
to give you some notion of the three great 
orders or ranks of crystals, into which all 
the others seem more or less to fall. We 
shall only want one figure a day, in the 
playground; and that can be drawn in a 
minute : but the general Ideas had better be 
fastened first. I must show you a great 
many minerals ; so let me have three tables 
wheeled into the three windows, that we 
may keep our specimens separate ; — we will 
keep the three orders of crystals on separate 
tables. 

(First Interlude, 0/ pushing and pulling, 

and spreading 0/ baize covers. Violet, 

not particularly minding what she is 

about, gets herself jammed into a cor~ 

) ner, and bid to stand out of the way • 

on which she devotes herself to medi* 

tation. ) 

Violet (after interval of meditatio n) . H o w 

strange it is that everything seems to divide 

into threes ! 

L. Everything doesn't divide into threes. 
Ivy won't, though shamrock will; and 
daisies won't, though lilies will. 

Violet. But all the nicest things seem to 
divide into threes. 
L. Violets won't. 

Violet. No ; I should think not, indeed ! 
But I mean the great things. 

L. I've always heard the globe had four 
quarters. 



70 ttbe Etbtcs of tbe Bust. 

Isabel Well ; but you know you said it 
hadn't any quarters at all. So mayn't it 
really be divided into three ? 

L. If it were divided into no more than 
three, on the outside of it, Isabel, it would 
be a fine world to live in ; and if it were 
divided into three in the inside of it, it would 
soon be no world to live in at all. 

Dora. We shall never get to the crystals, 
at this rate. (Aside to Mary.) He will get 
off into political economy before we know 
where we are. (Aloud,) But the crystals 
are divided into three, then ? 

L. No; but there are three general no- 
tions by which we may best get hold of 
them, Then between these notions there 
are other notions. 

Lily (alarmed). A great many? And 
shall we have to learn them all? 

L. More than a great many — a quite in- 
finite many. So you cannot learn them all. 

Lily (greatly relieved). Then may we 
only learn the three ? 

il Certainly ; unless, when you have got 
those three notions, you want to have some 
more notions; — which would not surprise 
me. But we'll try for the three, first. Katie, 
you broke your coral necklace this morn- 
ing? 

Kathleen. Oh ! who told you ? It was in 
jumping. I'm so sorry ! 

L. I'm very glad. Can you fetch me the 
beads of it? 



XCbe Crystal ®t&er& j« 

Kathleen. I've lost some; here are the 
rest in my pocket, if I can only get them out 

L. You mean to get them out some day, 
I suppose ; so try now. I want them. 

(Kathleen empties her pocket on the 
floor. The beads disperse. The School 
disperses also. Second Interlude- 
hunting piece. ) 

L. {after waiting patiently for a quarter of 
en hour, to Isabel, who comes upfront under 
the table with her hair all about her ears and 
the last findable beads in her hand). Mice 
are useful little things sometimes. Now, 
mousie, I want all those beads crystallized. 
How many ways are there of putting them 
in order? 

Isabel. Well, first one would string them, 
I suppose ? 

L. Yes, that's the first way. You cannot 
string ultimate atoms ; but you can put them 
in a row, and then they fasten themselves 
together, somehow, into a long rod or 
needle. We will call these ' ' Needle-crystals. " 
What would be the next way? 

Isabel. I suppose, as we are to get to- 
gether in the playground, when it stops 
raining, in different shapes ? 

L. Yes ; put the beads together, then, in 
the simplest form you can, to begin with. 
Put them into a square, and pack them close. 

Isabel {after careful endeavor )• I cao't 
get them closer. 



72 Zbe JBtbics of tbe Dust. 

L. That will do. Now you may see, be* 
forehand, that if you try to throw yourselves 
into square in this confused way, you will 
never know your places ; so you had better 
consider every square as made of rods, put 
side by side. Take four beads of equal size, 
first, Isabel ; put them into a little square. 
That you may consider as made up of two 
rods of two beads each. Then you can 
make a square a size larger, out of three rods 
of three. Then the next square may be a 
size larger. How many rods, Lily ? 

Lily. Four rods of four beads each, I 
suppose. 

L. Yes, and then five rods of five, and 
so on. But now, look here ; make another 
square of four beads again. You see they 
leave a little opening in the center. 

Isabel, (pushing' two opposite ones closer 
together). Now they don't. 

L. No ; but now it isn't a square ; and 
by pushing the two together you have 
pushed the two others farther apart 

Isabel. And yet, somehow, they all seem 
closer than they were ! 

L. Yes ; for before, each of them only 
touched two of the others, but now each of 
the two in the middle touches the other 
three. Take away one of the outsiders, 
Isabel • now you have three in a triangle— 
the smallest triangle you can make out of 
the beads. Now put a rod of three beads 
on at one side. So, you have a triangle of 



Gbe Crystal Otbcts. 73 

Six beads ; but just the shape of the first 
one. Next a rod of four on the side of 
that ; and you have a triangle of ten beads : 
then a rod of five on the side of that ; and 
you have a triangle of fifteen. Thus you 
have a square with five beads on the side, 
and a triangle with five beads on the side ; 
equal-sided, therefore, like the square. So, 
however few or many you may be, you 
may soon learn how to crystallize quickly into 
these two figures, which are the foundation 
of form in the commonest, and therefore 
actually the most important as well as in 
the rarest, and therefore, by our esteem, the 
most important minerals of the worlcL 
Look at this in my hand. 

Violet. Why, it is leaf gold I 

L. Yes ; but beaten by no man's ham* 
mer, or rather, not beaten at all, but woven. 
Besides, feel the weight of it. There is gold 
enough there to gild the walls and ceiling, 
if it were beaten thin. 

Violet. How beautiful ! And it glitters 
like a leaf covered with frost. 

L. You only think it so beautiful because 
you know it is gold. It is not prettier, in 
reality, than a bit of brass : for it is Transyl- 
vanian gold ; and they say there is a foolish 
gnome in the mines there, who is always 
wanting to live in the moon, and so alloys 
all the gold with a little silver. I don't 
know how that may be ; but the silver 
always is in the gold ; and if he does it, it'a 



74 Gbe Stbfcs of tbe Dust. 

very provoking of him, for no gold is woven 
so fine anywhere else. 

Mary {who has been looking through her 
magnifying glass). But this is not woven. 
This is all made of little triangles. 

L. Say " patched," then, if you must be 
so particular. But if you fancy all those 
triangles, small as they are (and many of 
them are infinitely small), made up again of 
rods, and those of grains, as we built our 
great triangle of the beads, what word will 
you take for the manufacture ? 

May. There's no word — it is beyond 
words. 

L. Yes ; and that would matter little, 
were it not beyond thoughts too. But, at 
all events, this yellow leaf of dead gold, shed, 
not from the ruined woodlands, but the 
ruined rocks, will help you to remember the 
second kind of crystals, Zeo/^crystals, or 
Foliated crystals ; though I show you the 
form in gold first only to make a strong im- 
pression on you, for gold is not generally, 
or characteristically, crystallized in leaves ; 
the real type of foliated crystals is this thing, 
Mica ; which if you once feel well, and break 
well, you will always know again ; and you 
will often have occasion to know it, for you 
will find it everywhere nearly, in hill coun- 
tries. 

Kathleen. If we break it well I May we 
break it ? 

I* To powder, if you like. 



Cbe Crystal ©r&ers* 75 

{Surrenders plate of brown mica to public 
investigation. Third Interlude. It sustains 
severely philosophical treatment at all hands.) 

Florrie (to whom the last fragments have 
descended). Always leaves, and leaves, and 
nothing but leaves, or white dust ? 

L. That dust itself is nothing but finer 
leaves. 

(Shows them to Florrie through magnify* 
ing glass. ) 

Isabel (peeping over Florrie's shoulder). 
But then this bit under the glass looks like 
that bit out of the glass ! If we could break 
this bit under the glass, what would it be like ? 

L. It would be all leaves still. 

Isabel. And then if we broke those again ? 

L. All less leaves still. 

Isabel (impatient). And if we broke them 
again, and again, and again, and again, and 
again ? 

L. Well, I suppose you would come to a 
limit, if you could only see it, Notice that 
the little flakes already differ somewhat from 
the large ones : because I can bend them up 
and down, and they stay bent ; while the 
large flake, though it bent easily a little way, 
sprang back when you let it go, and broke 
when you tried to bend it far. And a large 
mass would not bend at all. 

Mary. Would that leaf gold separate into 
finer leaves, in the same way ? 

L. No; and therefore, as I told you, it is 



j6 TLbc Mtbics of tbe Bust, 

not a characteristic specimen of a foliated 
crystallization. The latter triangles are por- 
tions of solid crystals, and so they are in 
this, which looks like a black mica ; but you 
see it is made up of triangles like the gold, 
and stands, almost accurately, as an inter- 
mediate link, in crystals, between mica and 
gold. Yet this is the commonest, as gold 
the rarest, of metals. 

Mary. Is it iron ? I never saw iron so 
bright. 

L. It is rust of iron, finely crystallized: 
from its resemblance to mica, it is often 
called micaceous iron. 

Kathleen. May we break this, too ? 

L. No, for I could not easily get such an- 
other crystal ; besides, it would not break 
like the mica ; it is much harder. But take 
the glass again, and look at the fineness of 
the jagged edges of the triangles where they 
lap over each other. The gold has the same ; 
but you see them better here, terrace above 
terrace, countless, and in successive angles, 
like superb fortified bastions. 

May. But all foliated crystals are not made 
of triangles ? 

L. Far from it ; mica is occasionally so, 
but usually of hexagons ; and here is a 
foliated crystal made of squares, which will 
show you that the leaves of the rock-land 
have their summer green, as well as their 
autumnal gold. 

Florrie. Oh ! oh ! oh I (jumps for joy). 



Gbe Crystal ©rfcers 77 

L. Did you never see a bit of green leaf 
before, Florrie? 

Florrie. Yes, but never so bright as that, 
and not in a stone. 

L. If you will look at the leaves of the 
trees in sunshine after a shower, you will 
find they are much brighter than that ; and 
surely they are none the worse for being on 
stalks instead of in stones ? 

Florrie. Yes, but then there are so many 
of them, one never looks, I suppose. 

L. Now you have it, Florrie. 

Violet {sighing). There are so many 
beautiful things we never see ! 

L. You need not sigh for that, Violet ; but I 
will tell you what we should all sigh for — that 
there are so many ugly things we never see. 

Violet. But we don't want to see ugly 
things ! 

L. You had better say, "We don't want 
to suffer them. " You ought to be glad in 
thinking how much more beauty God has 
made, than human eyes can ever see ; but 
not glad in thinking how much more evil 
man has made, than his own soul can ever 
conceive, much more than his hands can 
ever heal. 

Violet. I don't understand ; — how is that 
like the leaves ? 

L. The same law holds in our neglect of 
multiplied pain, as in our neglect of multi- 
plied beauty. Florrie jumps for joy at sight 
of half an inch of a green leaf in a brown 



78 Sbe JEtbics of tbe Dust, 

stone, and takes more notice of it than of all 
the green in the wood, and you, or I, or any 
of us, would be unhappy if any single 
human creature beside us were in sharp 
pain ; but we can read, at breakfast, day 
after day, of men being killed, and of women 
and children dying of hunger faster than 
the leaves strew the brooks in Vallombrosa ; 
— and then go out to play croquet, as if 
nothing had happened. 

May. But we do not see the people being 
killed or dying. 

L. You did not see your brother, when 
you got the telegram the other day, saying 
he was ill, May ; but you cried for him ; and 
played no croquet. But we cannot talk of 
these things now ; and what is more, you 
must let me talk straight on, for a little 
while ; and ask no questions till I've done ; 
for we branch ("exfoliate," I should say, 
mineralogically) always into something else, 
— though that's my fault more than yours, 
but I must go straight on now. You have 
got a distinct notion, I hope, of leaf-crystals ; 
and you see the sort of look they have : you 
can easily remember that "folium " is Latin 
for a leaf, and that the separate flakes of 
mica, or any other such stones, are called 
"folia;" but, because mica is the most 
characteristic of these stones, other things 
that are like it in structure are called 
" micas ; " thus we have Uran-mica, which 
is the green leaf I showed you ; and Copper- 



Cbe Crystal ©tDers. 79 

mica, which is another like it, made chiefly 
of copper; and this foliated iron is called 
"micaceous iron." You have then these 
two great orders, Needle-crystals, made 
(probably) of grains in rows ; and Leaf- 
crystals, made (probably) of needles inter- 
woven ; now, lastly, there are crystals of a 
third order, in heaps, or knots, or masses, 
which may be made either of leaves laid 
one upon another, or of needles bound like 
Roman fasces ; and mica itself, when it is 
well crystallized, puts itself into such masses, 
as if to show us how others are made. Here 
is a brown six-sided crystal, quite as beauti- 
fully chiseled at the sides as any castle 
tower, but you see it is entirely built of 
folia of mica, one laid above another, which 
break away the moment I touch the edge 
with my knife. Now, here is another hex- 
agonal tower, of just the same size and 
color, which I want you to compare with 
the mica carefully ; but as I cannot wait for 
you to do it just now, I must tell you quick- 
ly what main differences to look for. First, 
you will feel it far heavier than the mica. 
Then, though its surface looks quite mica- 
ceous in the folia of it when you try them 
with the knife, you will find you cannot 
break them away 

Kathleen. May I try ? 

L. Yes, you mistrusting Katie. Here's 
my strong knife for you. {Experimental 
pause. Kathleen doing her best.) You'll 



8o Gbc Etbica of tbe Bust. 

have that knife shutting on your finger 
presently, Kate ; and I don't know a girl 
who would like less to have her hand tied 
up for a week. 

Kathleen {who also does not like to be 
beaten — giving up the knife despondently). 
What can the nasty hard thing be? 

L. It is nothing but indurated clay, Kate : 
very hard set certainly, yet not so hard as 
it might be. If it were thoroughly well 
crystallized, you would see none of those 
micaceous fractures ; and the stone would 
be quite red and clear, all through. 

Kathleen. Oh, cannot you show us one? 

L. Egypt can, if you ask her; she has a beau- 
tiful one in the clasp of her favorite bracelet 

Kathleen. Why, that's a ruby ! 

L. Well, so is that thing you've been 
scratching at. 

Kathleen. My goodness ! 

{Takes up the stone again, very delicately / 
and drops it. General consternation.) 

L. Never mind, Katie ; you might drop it 
from the top of the house, and do it no 
harm. But though you really are a very 
good girl, and as good-natured as anybody 
can possibly be, remember, you have your 
faults, like other people ; and, if I were you, 
the next time I wanted to assert anything 
energetically, I would assert it by " my 
badness," not a my goodness." 

Kathleen. Ah, now it's too bad of you ! 
. L. Well, then, 111 invoke, on occasion, 



ttbe Crystal Qxbete. 81 

my " too-badness." But you may as well 
pick up the ruby, now you have dropped it ; 
and look carefully at the beautiful hexagonal 
lines which gleam on its surface ; and here 
is a pretty white sapphire (essentially the 
same stone as the ruby), in which you will 
see the same lovely structure, like the threads 
of the finest white cobweb. I do not know 
what is the exact method of a ruby's con- 
struction ; but you see by these lines, what 
fine construction there is, even in this hard- 
est of stones (after the diamond), which 
usually appears as a massive lump or knot. ! 
There is therefore no real mineralogical dis- 
tinction between needle crystals, and knotted 
crystals, but practically, crystallized masses 
throw themselves into one of the three groups 
we have been examining to-day ; and appear 
either as Needles, as Folia, or as Knots ; when 
they are in needles (or fibers), they make the 
stones or rocks formed out of then "fibrous ;" 
when they are in folia, they make them 
41 foliated ;" when they are in knots (or 
grains), " granular. 3 * Fibrous rocks are 
comparatively rare, in mass ; but fibrous 
minerals are innumerable : and it is often a 
question which really no one but a young 
lady could possibly settle, whether one 
should call the fibers composing them 
"threads" or " needles/' Here is amian- 
thus, for instance, which is quite as fine and 
soft as any cotton thread you ever sewed 
with ; and here is sulphide of bismuth, with 
6 



82 Gbe JEtbice of tbe Bust. 

sharper points and brighter luster than your 
finest needles have ; and fastened in white 
webs of quartz more delicate than your finest 
lace ; and here is sulphide of antimony, which 
looks like mere purple wool, but it is all of 
purple needle crystals, and here is red oxide 
of copper (you must not breathe on it as 
you look, or you may blow some of the films 
of it off the stone), which is simply a woven 
tissue of scarlet silk. However, these finer 
thread-forms are comparatively rare, while 
the bolder and needle-like crystals occur 
constantly ; so that, I believe, " Needle- 
crystal " is the best word (the grand one is 
" Acicular " crystal, but Sibyl will tell you it is 
all the same, only less easily understood ; and 
therefore more scientific). Then the Leaf- 
crystals, as I said, form an immense mass 
of foliated rocks ; and the Granular crystals, 
which are of many kinds, form essentially 
granular, or granitic and porphyritic rocks ; 
and it is always a point of more interest to 
me (and I think will ultimately be to you), 
to consider the causes which force a given 
mineral to take any one of these three general 
forms, than what the peculiar geometrical 
limitations are, belonging to its own crys- 
tals.* It is more interesting to me, for 
instance, to try and find out why the red 
oxide of copper, usually crystallizing in 
cubes or octahedrons, makes itself exquisite- 

* Note iv% 



Zbe Crystal ©r&ers* 83 

fy, out of its cubes, into this red silk in one 
particular Cornish mine, than what are the 
absolutely necessary angles of the octahe- 
dron, which is its common form. At all 
events, that mathematical part of crystal- 
lography is quite beyond girls' strength ; but 
these questions of the various tempers and 
fnanners of crystals are not only compre- 
hensible by you, but full of the most curious 
teaching for you. For in the fulfillment, to 
the best of their power, of their adopted 
form under given circumstances there are 
conditions entirely resembling those of hu- 
man virtue : and indeed expressible under 
no term so proper as that of the Virtue, or 
Courage of crystals : — which, if you are not 
afraid of the crystals making you ashamed 
of yourselves, we will try to get some notion 
of, to-morrow. But it will be a bye-lecture, 
and more about yourselves than the min- 
erals. Don't come unless you like. 

Mary. I'm sure the crystals will make us 
ashamed of ourselves ; but we'll come, for 
all that. 

L. Meantime, look well and quietly over 
these needle, or thread crystals, and those 
on the other two tables, with magnifying 
glasses ; and see what thoughts will come 
into your little heads about them. For the 
best thoughts are generally those which 
come without being forced, one does not 
know how. And so I hope you will get 
through your wet day patiently. 



LECTURE s 

CRYSTAL VIRTUES. 



LECTURE V. 

CRYSTAL VIRTUES. 

A quiet talk, in the afternoon, by the sunniest window of 
the Drawing-room. Present, Florrie, Isabel, May, 
Lucilla, Kathleen, Dora, Mary, and some, others, 
who have saved time for the bye-Lecture. 

L. So you have really come, like good 
girls, to be made ashamed of yourselves ? 

Dora (very meekly). No, we needn't be 
made so ; we always are. 

L. Well, I believe that's truer than most 
pretty speeches : but you know, you saucy 
girl, some people have more reason to be so 
than others. Are you sure everybody is, as 
well as you ? 

The General Voice. Yes, yes; everybody. 

L. What ! Florrie ashamed of herself? 

(Florrie hides behind the curtain.) 

L. And Isabel ? 

(Isabel hides under the table.) 

L. And May ? 

(May runs into the corner behind the 
piano. ) 

L. And Lucilla? 

(Lucilla hides her face in her hands.) 

&, 



88 Zbc Etbics of tbe Duet. 

L. Dear, dear ; but this will never do. I 
shall have to tell you of the faults of the 
crystals, instead of virtues, to put you in 
heart again. 

May {coming out of her corner). Oh ! 
have the crystals faults, like us ? 

L. Certainly, May. Their best virtues 
are shown in righting their faults ; and some 
have a great many faults ; and some are 
very naughty crystals indeed. 

Florrie {from behind her curtain). As 
naughty as me? 

Isabel {peeping out from under the table- 
cloth). Or me ? 

L. Well, I don't know. They never for- 
get their syntax, children, when once they've 
been taught it. But I think some of them 
are, on the whole, worse than any of you. 
Not that it's amiable of you to look so radi- 
ant, all in a minute, on that account. 

Dora. Oh ! but it's so much more com- 
fortable. 

{Everybody seems to recover their spirits. 
Eclipse of Florrie and Isabel terminates. ) 

L. What kindly creatures girls are, after 
all, to their neighbors' failings ! I think you 
may be ashamed of yourselves indeed, now, 
children ! I can tell you, you shall hear of 
the highest crystalline merits that I can 
think of, to-day : and I wish there were 
more of them ; but crystals have a limited, 
though a stern, code of morals ; and their 
essential virtues are but two ; — the first is 



Crystal Virtue*. 89 

to be pure, and the second to be well 
shaped. 

Mary. Pure ! Does that mean clear- 
transparent ? 

L. No ; unless in the case of a transpar- 
ent substance. You cannot have a trans- 
parent crystal of gold ; but you may have 
a perfectly pure one. 

Isabel. But you said it was the shape that 
made things be crystals ; therefore, oughtn't 
their shape to be their first virtue, not their 
second ? 

L. Right, you troublesome mousie. But 
I call their shape only their second virtue, 
because it depends on time and accident, 
and things which the crystal cannot help. 
If it is cooled too quickly, or shaken, it must 
take what shape it can ; but it seems as if, 
even then, it had in itself the power of re- 
jecting impurity, if it has crystalline life 
enough. Here is a crystal of quartz, well 
enough shaped in its way ; but it seems to 
have been languid and sick at heart ; and 
some white milky substance has got into it, 
and mixed itself up with it, all through. It 
makes the quartz quiet yellow, if you hold 
it up to the light, and milky blue on the sur- 
face. Here is another, broken into a thou- 
sand separate facets and out of all traceable 
shape ; but as pure as a mountain spring. 
I like this one best. 

The Audience. So do I — and I — and L 

Mary, Would a crystallographer ? 



90 Gbe jBtbfcs of tbe Ditft* 

L. I think so. He would find many more 
laws curiously exemplified in the irregularly 
ground but pure crystal. But it is a futile 
question, this of first or second. Purity is 
in most cases a prior, if not a nobler, virtue ; 
at all events it is most convenient to think 
about it first. 

Mary. But what ought we to think about 
it ? Is there much to be thought — I mean, 
much to puzzle one ? 

L. I don't know what you call "much." 
It is a long time since I met with anything 
in which there was little. There's not much 
in this, perhaps. The crystal must be either 
dirty or clean, — and there's an end. So it 
is with ones hands, and with one's heart — 
only you can wash your hands without 
changing them, but not hearts, nor crystals. 
On the whole, while you are young, it will 
be as well to take care that your hearts don't 
want much washing ; for they may perhaps 
need wringing also, when they do. 

(Audience doubtful and uncomfortable. 
Lucilla at last takes courage?) 

Lucilla. Oh ! but surely, sir, we cannot 
make our hearts clean ? 

L. Not easily, Lucilla ; so you had better 
keep them so, when they are. 

Lucilla. When they are ! But, sir — 

L. Well? 

Lucilla. Sir — surely — are we not told that 
they are all evil ? 



Crystal Virtues* 91 

L. Wait a little, Lucilla ; that is difficult 
ground you are getting" upon and we must 
keep to our crystals, till at least we under* 
stand what their good and evil consist in ; 
they may help us afterwards to some use- 
ful hints about our own. I said that their 
goodness consisted chiefly in purity of sub- 
stance, and perfectness of form : but those 
are rather the effects of their goodness, than 
the goodness itself. The inherent virtues of 
the crystals, resulting in these outer condi- 
tions, might really seem to be best described 
in the words we should use respecting liv- 
ing creatures — " force of heart " and " steadi- 
ness of purpose." There seem to be in 
some crystals, from the beginning, an un- 
conquerable purity of vital power, and 
strength of crystal spirit. Whatever dead 
substance, unacceptant of this energy, 
comes in their way, is either rejected, or 
forced to take some beautiful subordinate 
form ; the purity of the crystal remains un- 
sullied, and every atom of it bright with 
coherent energy. Then the second condi- 
tion is, that from the beginning of its whole 
structure, a fine crystal seems to have deter- 
mined that it will be of a certain size and of 
a certain shape ; it persists in this plan, and 
completes it. Here is a perfect crystal of 
quartz for you. It is of an unusual form, 
and one which it might seem very difficult 
to build — a pyramid with convex sides, com- 
posed of other minor pyramids. But there 



92 Gbe Btbfcs of tbe Dust* 

is not a flaw in its contour throughout ; not 
one of its myriads of component sides but is 
as bright as a jeweler's faceted work (and 
far finer, if you saw it close). The crystal 
points are as sharp as javelins ; their edges 
will cut glass with a touch. Anything more 
resolute, consummate, determinate in form, 
cannot be conceived. Here, on the other 
hand, is a crystal of the same substance, in 
a perfectly simple type of form — a plain six- 
sided prism ; but from its base to its point, 
— and it is nine inches long, — it has never 
for one instant made up its mind what thick- 
ness it will have. It seems to have begun 
by making itself as thick as it thought pos- 
sible with the quantity of material at com- 
mand. Still not being as thick as it would 
like to be, it has clumsily glued on more 
substance at one of its sides. Then it has 
thinned itself, in a panic of economy ; then 
puffed itself out again ; then starved one side 
to enlarge another ; then warped itself quite 
out of its first line. Opaque, rough-surfaced, 
jagged on the edge, distorted in the spine, 
it exhibits a quite human image of decrepi- 
tude and dishonor ; but the worst of all the 
signs of its decay and helplessness, is that 
half-way up, a parasite crystal, smaller, 
but just as sickly, has rooted itself in the 
side of the larger one, eating out a cavity 
round its root, and then growing backwards, 
or downwards, contrary to the direction of 
the main crystal. Yet I cannot trace the 



Crystal Virtue*. 93 

least difference in purity of substance be- 
tween the first most noble stone, and this 
ignoble and dissolute one. The impurity of 
the last is in its will, or want of will. 

Mary. Oh, if we could but understand the 
the meaning of it all ! 

L. We can understand all that is good for 
us. It is just as true for us, as for the crys- 
tal, that the nobleness of life depends on its 
consistency, — clearness of purpose, — quiet 
and ceaseless energy. All doubt, and re- 
penting, and botching, and re-touching, and 
wondering what will it be best to do next, 1 
are vice, as well as misery. 

Mary (muck wondering). But must not 
one repent when one does wrong, and hesi- 
tate when one can't see one's way ? 

L. You have no business at all to do 
wrong ; nor to get into any way that you 
cannot see. Your intelligence should al- 
ways be far in advance of your act. When- 
ever you do not know what you are about, 
you are sure to be doing wrong. 

Kathleen. Oh, dear, but I never know 
what I am about ! 

L. Very true, Katie, but it is a great deal 
to know, if you know that. And you find 
that you have done wrong afterwards ; and 
perhaps some day you may begin to know, 
or at least, think, what you are about. 

Isabel. But surely people can't do very 
wrong if they don't know, can they ? I 
mean, they can't be very naughty. They 



94 



Zbc JStbics of tbe Dust* 



can be wrong, like Kathleen or me, when 
we make mistakes ; but not wrong in the 
dreadful way. I can't express what I 
mean ; but there are two sorts of wrong, 
are there not ? 

L. Yes, Isabel ; but you will find that the 
great difference is between kind and unkind 
wrongs, not between meant and unmeant 
wrong. Very few people really mean to do 
wrong, — in a deep sense, none. They only 
don't know what they are about. Cain did 
not mean to do wrong when he killed Abel. 
(Isabel draws a deep breath, and opens 
her eyes very wide. ) 

L. No, Isabel ; and there are countless 
Cains among us now, who kill their brothers 
by the score a day, not only for less provo- 
cation than Cain had, but for no provoca- 
tion, — and merely for what they can make 
of their bones, — yet do not think they are 
doing wrong in the least. Then sometimes 
you have the business reversed, as over in 
America these last years, where you have 
seen Abel resolutely killing Cain, and not 
thinking he is doing wrong. The great diffi- 
culty is always to open people's eyes : to 
touch their feelings, and break their hearts, 
is easy ; the difficult thing is to break their 
heads. What does it matter, as long a» they 
remain stupid, whether you change their 
feelings or not? You cannot be always at 
their elbow to tell them what is right : and 
they may just do as wrong as before, or 



Crgstal Virtues* 95 

worse ; and their best intentions merely 
make the road smooth for them, — you know 
where, children. For it is not the place 
itself that is paved with them, as people say 
so often. You can't pave the bottomless 
pit ; but you may the road to it. 

May. Well, but if people do as well as 
they can see how, surely that is the right 
for them, isn't it ? 

L. No, May, not a bit of it ; right is right, 
and wrong is wrong. It is only the fool 
who does wrong, and says he (i did it for the 
best." And if there's one sort of person in 
the world that the Bible speaks harder of 
than another, it is fools. Their particular 
and chief way of saying " There is no God" 
is this, of declaring that whatever their 
j " public opinion " maybe, is right : and that 
Gods opinion is of no consequence. 
1 May. But surely nobody can always 
know what is right? 

L. Yes, you always can, for to-day ; and 
if you do what you see of it to-day, you will 
see more of it, and more clearly, to-morrow. 
Here for instance, you children are at school, 
and have to learn French, and arithmetic, 
and music, and several other such things. 
That is your " right "for the present; the 
"right " for us, your teachers, is to see that 
you learn as much as you can without spoil- 
ing your dinner, your sleep, or your play ; 
and that what you do learn, you learn well. 
You all know when you learn with a will, 



g6 Gbe fitbics of tbe 2>ust* 

and when you dawdle. There's no doubt 
of conscience about that, I suppose ? 

Violet. No ; but if one wants to read an 
amusing book, instead of learning ones 
lesson ? 

L. You don't call that a "question," 
seriously, Violet ? You are then merely 
deciding whether you will resolutely do 
wrong or not. 

Mary. But in after life, how many fearful 
difficulties may arise, however one tries to 
know or to do what is right ! 

L. You are much too sensible a girl, 
Mary, to have felt that, whatever you may 
have seen. A great many of young ladies' 
difficulties arise from their falling in love 
with a wrong person ; but they have no 
business to let themselves fall in love, till 
they know he is the right one. 

Dora. How many thousands ought he 
to have a year ? 

L. {disdaining reply). There are, of 
course, certain crises of fortune when one has 
to take care of oneself, and mind shrewdly 
what one is about. There is never any real 
doubt about the path, but you may have to 
walk very slowly. 

Mary. And if one is forced to do a wrong 
thing by some one who has authority over 
you ? 

L. My dear, no one can be forced to do 
a wrong thing, for the guilt is in the will : 
but you may any day be forced to do a 



Crystal Wttues* 97* 

fatal thing, as you might be forced to take 
poison ; the remarkable law of nature in such 
cases being, that it is always unfortunate 
you who are poisoned, and not the person 
who gives you the dose. It is a very strange 
law, but it is a law. Nature merely sees to 
the carrying out of the normal operation of 
arsenic. She never troubles herselt to ask 
who gave it you. So also you may be 
starved to death, morally as well as phys- 
ically, by other people's faults. You are, 
on the whole, very good children sitting 
here to-day ; do you think that your good- 
ness comes all by your own contriving ? or 
that you are gentle and kind because your 
dispositions are naturally more angelic than 
those of the poor girls who are playing, 
with wild eyes, on the dust-heaps in the 
alleys of our great towns ; and who will 
one day fill their prisons, — or, better, their 
graves? Heaven only knows where they, 
and we who have cast them there, shall 
stand at last. But the main judgment ques- 
tion will be, I suppose, for all of us, "Did 
you keep a good heart through it ? " What 
you were, others may answer for ; — what 
you tried to be, you must answer for your- 
self. Was the heart pure and true — tell us 
that ? 

And so we come back to your sorrowful 
question, Lucilla, which I put aside a little 
ago. You would be afraid to answer that 
your heart was pure and true, would not you * 



98 Cbe JEtbics of tbe Dust* 

Lucilla. Yes, indeed, sir. 

L. Because you have been taught that it 
is all evil — "only evil continually/' Some- 
how, often as people say that, they never 
seem, to me, to believe it. Do you really 
believe it ? 

Lucilla. Yes, sir ; I hope so. 

L. That you have an entirely bad heart ? 

Lucilla (a little uncomfortable at the sub- 
stitution of the monosyllable for the dissyllable, 
nevertheless persisting in her orthodoxy}. 
Yes, sir. 

L. Florrie, I am sure you are tired ; I 
never like you to stay when you are tired ; 
but, you know, you must not play with the 
kitten while we're talking. 

Florrie. Oh ! but I'm not tired ; and I'm 
only nursing her. She'll be asleep in my 
lap, directly. 

L. Stop ! that puts me in mind of some- 
thing I had to show you, about minerals 
that are like hair. I want a hair out of 
Tittie's tail. 

Florrie {quite rude, in her surprise, even 
to the point of repeating expressions). Out 
of Tittie's tail ! 

L. Yes : a brown one : Lucilla, you can 
get at the tip of it nicely, under Florae's arm; 
just pull one out for me. 

Lucilla. Oh ! but, sir, it will hurt her so 1 

L. Never mind ; she can't scratch you 
while Florrie is holding her. Now that I 
think of it, you had better pull out two. 



Crystal Wrtues* 99 

Lucilla. But then she may scratch 
Florrie ! and it will hurt her so, sir ! if you 
only want brown hairs, wouldn't two of 
mine do ? 

L. Would you really rather pull out your 
own than Tittie's ? 

Lucilla. Oh, of course, if mine will do. 

L. But that's very wicked, Lucilla ! 

Lucilla. Wicked, sir? 

L. Yes ; if your heart was not so bad, you 
would much rather pull all the cat's hairs 
out than one of your own. 

Lucilla. Oh ! but, sir, I didn't mean bad 
like that. 

L. I believe, if the truth were told, Lucilla, 
you would like to tie a kettle to Tittie's tail, 
and hunt her round the playground. 

Lucilla. Indeed, I should not, sir. 

L. That's not true, Lucilla ; you know it 
cannot be. 

Lucilla. Sir? 

L. Certainly it is not ; — how can you pos- 
sibly speak any truth out of such a heart as 
you have ? It is wholly deceitful. 

Lucilla. Oh ! no, no ; I don't mean that 
way ; I don't mean that it makes me tell lies, 
quite out. 

L. Only that it tells lies within you ? 

Lucilla. Yes. 

L. Then, outside of it, you know what is 
true, and say so ; and I may trust the out- 
side of your heart ; but within, it is all foul 
and false. Is that the wav ? 



joo Gbe J£tbic6 of tbe Bust. 

Lucilla. I suppose so : I don't under* 
stand it quite. 

L. There is no occasion for understanding 
it ; but do you feel it ? Are you sure that 
your heart is deceitful above all things, and 
desperately wicked ? 

Lucilla. (much relieved by finding herself 
among phrases with which she is acquainted). 
Yes, sir. I'm sure of that. 

L. (pensively). I'm sorry for it, Lucilla. 

Lucilla. So am I, indeed. 

L. What are you sorry with, Lucilla ? 

Lucilla. Sorry with, sir ? 

L. Yes ; I mean, where do you feel sorry, 
in your feet ? 

Lucilla (laughing a little). No, sir, of 
course. 

L. In your shoulders, then ? 

Lucilla. No, sir. 

L. You are sure of that ? Because, I 
fear, sorrow in the shoulders would not be 
worth much. 

Lucilla. I suppose I feel it in my heart, 
if I really am sorry. 

L. If you really are ! Do you mean to 
say that you are sure you are utterly wicked, 
and yet to do not care ? 

Lucilla. No, indeed ; I have cried about 
it often. 

L. Well, then, you are sorry in your 
heart ? 

Lucilla. Yes, when the sorrow is worth 
anything. 



Crystal Wrtue0* 101 

L. Even if it be not, it cannot be any- 
where else but there. It is not the crystal- 
line lens of your eyes which is sorry, when 
you cry ? 

Lucilla. No, sir, of course. 

L. Then, have you two hearts ; one of 
which is wicked, and the other grieved ? or 
is one side of it sorry for the other side ? 

Lucilla (weary of cross-examination, and 
a little vexed). Indeed, sir, you know I can't 
understand it ; but you know how it is writ- 
ten — "another law in my members, war- 
ring against the law of my mind. " 

L. Yes, Lucilla, I know how it is written; 
but I do not see that it will help us to know 
that, if we neither understand what is writ- 
ten, nor feel it. And you will not get nearer 
to the meaning of one verse, if, as soon as 
you are puzzled by it, you escape to another, 
introducing three new words — "law/' 
" members," and " mind " ; not one of which 
you at present know the meaning of; and 
respecting which, you probably never will 
be much wiser ; since men like Montesquieu 
and Locke have spent great part of their 
lives in endeavoring to explain two of them, 

Lucilla. Oh ! please, sir, ask somebody 
else. 

L. If I thought any one else could answer 
better than you, Lucilla, I would : but sup- 
pose I try, instead, myself, to explain your 
feelings to you ? 

Lucilla. Oh, yes ; please do. 



102 Gbe J6tbiC6 of tbe Duet 

L. Mind, I say your "feelings/' not your 
"belief." For I cannot undertake to ex- 
plain anybody's beliefs. Still I must trjr 
a little first, to explain the belief also, be- 
cause I want to draw it to some issue. As 
far as I understand what you say, or any 
one else, taught as you have been taught, 
says, on this matter, — you think that there 
is an external goodness, a whited-sepulcher 
kind of goodness, which appears beautiful 
outwardly, but is within full of unclean- 
ness : a deep secret guilt, of which we our- 
selves are not sensible ; and which can only 
be seen by the Maker of us all. (Approving 
murmurs from audience.} 

L. Is it not so with the body as well as 
the soul ? 

{Looked notes of interrogation.) 

L. A skull, for instance, is not a beautiful 
thing ? 

{Grave faces, signifying " Cerfai?ily not, n 
and " What next ?") 

L. And if you all could see in each other 
with clear eyes, whatever God sees beneath 
those fair faces of yours, you would not like 
it? 

{Murmured No's. ) 

L. Nor would it be good for you ? 
{Silence. ) 

L. The probability being that what God 
does not allow you to see, He does not wish 
you to see ; nor even to think of? 
{Silence prolonged. ) 



Crystal XDivtues. 103 

L. It would not at all be good for you, 
for instance, whenever you were washing 
your faces, and braiding your hair, to be 
thinking of the shapes of the jawbones, and 
of the cartilage of the nose, and of the 
jagged sutures of the scalp ? 

{Resolutely whispered No's. ) 

L. Still less to see through a clear glass 
the daily processes of nourishment and 
decay ? 
{No's.) 

L. Still less if instead of merely inferior 
and preparatory conditions of structure, as 
in the skeleton, — or inferior offices of struc- 
ture, as in operations of life and death, — 
there were actual disease in the body ; ghast- 
ly and dreadful. You would try to cure it ; 
but having taken such measures as were 
necessary, you would not think the cure 
likely to be promoted by perpetually watch- 
ing the wounds, or thinking of them. On the 
contrary, you would be thankful for every 
moment of forgetfulness ; as, in daily health, 
you must be thankful that your Maker has 
veiled whatever is fearful in your frame under 
a sweet and manifest beauty ; and has made 
it your duty, and your only safety, to rejoice 
in that, both in yourself and in others : — not 
indeed concealing, or refusing to believe 
in sickness, if it come ; but never dwelling 
on it. 

Now, your wisdom and duty touching 
soul-sickness are just the same. Ascertain 



io4 vTbe BtMcs of tbe Bust. 

clearly what is wrong with you ; and so far 
as you know any means of mending it, 
take those means, and have done ; when you 
are examining yourself, never call yourself 
merely a " sinner, " that is very cheap abuse ; 
and utterly useless. You may even get to 
like it, and be proud of it. But call yourself 
a liar, a coward, a sluggard, a glutton, or an 
evil-eyed, jealous wretch, if you indeed find 
yourself to be in any wise any of these. Take 
steady means to check yourself in whatever 
fault you have ascertained, and justly ac- 
cused yourself of. And as soon as you are 
in active way of mending, you will be no 
more inclined to moan over an undefined 
corruption. For the rest, you will find it 
less easy to uproot faults, than to choke them 
t>y gaining virtues. Do not think of your 
faults ; still less of others' faults : in every 
person who comes near you, look for what 
is good and strong : honor that ; rejoice in 
it ; and, as you can, try to imitate it ; and 
your faults will drop off like dead leaves, 
when their time comes. If, on looking back, 
your whole life should seem rugged as a 
palm-tree stem ; still, never mind, so long as 
it had been growing ; and has its grand green 
shade of leaves, and weight of honeyed fruit 
at top. And even if you cannot find much 
good in yourself at last, think that it does 
not much matter to the universe either 
what you were, or are ; think how many 
people are noble, if you cannot be ; and re* 



Crystal Virtues. 105 

joice in their nobleness. An immense quan- 
tity of modern confession of sin, even when 
honest, is merely a sickly egotism ; which 
will rather gloat over its own evil, than lose 
the centralization of its interest in itself. 

Mary. But then, if we ought to forget our- 
selves so much, how did the old Greek 
proverb "Know thyself" come to be so 
highly estemed ? 

L. My dear, it is the proverb of proverbs ; 
Apollo's proverb, and the sun's — but do you 
think you can know yourself by looking into 
yourself? Never. You can know what you 
are, only by looking out of yourself. Meas- 
ure your own powers with those of others ; 
compare your own interests with those of 
others ; try to understand what you appear 
to them, as well as what they appear to 
you ; and judge of yourselves, in all things, 
relatively and subordinately ; not positive- 
ly : starting always with a wholesome 
conviction of the probability that there is 
nothing particular about you. For instance, 
some of you perhaps think you can write 
poetry. Dwell on your own feelings ; and 
doings : — and you will soon think your- 
selves Tenth Muses ; but forget your own 
feelings ; and try, instead, to understand 
a line or two of Chaucer or Dante : and 
you will soon begin to feel yourselves 
very foolish girls — which is much like the 
fact. 

So, something which befalls you may 



io6 Gbe JEtbics of tbe Dust* 

seem a great misfortune ; — you meditate 
over its effects on you personally ; and begin 
to think that it is a chastisement, or a warn- 
ing, or a this or that or the other of profound 
significance ; and that all the angels in 
heaven have left their business for a little 
while, that they may watch its effects on 
your mind. But give up this egotistic in- 
dulgence of your fancy ; examine a little 
what misfortunes, greater a thousand fold, 
are happening, every second, to twenty 
times worthier persons : and your self- con- 
sciousness will change into pity and humil- 
ity ; and you will know yourself, so far as 
to understand that " there hath nothing 
taken thee but what is common to man." 

Now, Lucilla, these are the practical con- 
clusions which any person of sense would 
arrive at, supposing the texts which relate 
to the inner evil of the heart were as many, 
and as prominent, as they are often sup- 
posed to be by careless readers. But the 
way in which common people read their 
Bibles is just like the way that the old monks 
thought hedgehogs ale grapes. They rolled 
themselves (it was said), over and over, 
where the grapes lay on the ground. What 
fruit stuck to their spines, they carried off, 
and ate. So your hedgehoggy readers roll 
themselves over and over their Bibles, and 
declare that whatever sticks to their own 
spines is Scripture, and that nothing else 
is. But you can only get the skins of the 



Crystal Wrtues, 107 

texts that way. If you want their juice, 
you must press them in cluster. Now, the 
clustered texts about the human heart, insist, 
as a body, not on any inherent corruption 
in all hearts, but on the terrific distinction 
between the bad and the good ones. "A 
good man, out of the good treasure of his 
heart, bringeth forth that which is good; 
and an evil man, out of the evil treasure, 
bringeth forth that which is evil/' "They 
on the rock are they which, in an honest 
and good heart, having heard the word, 
keep it. " 1 1 Delight thyself in the Lord, and 
He shall give thee the desires of thine 
heart. " "The wicked have bent their bow, 
that they may privily shoot at him that is 
upright in heart," And so on ; they are 
countless, to the same effect. And, for all 
of us, the question is not at all to ascertain 
how much or how little corruption there is 
in human nature ; but to ascertain whether, 
out of all the mass of that nature, we are of 
the sheep or the goat breed ; whether we 
are people of upright heart, being shot at, or 
people of crooked heart, shooting. And, of 
all the texts bearing on the subject, this, 
which is a quite simple and practical order, 
is the one you have chiefly to hold in mind. 
"Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out 
of it are the issues of life. " 

Lucilla. And yet, how inconsistent the 
texts seem ! 

I* Nonsense^ Lucilla ! do you think the 



io8 Gbe Etbfcs of tbe Dust 

universe is bound to look consistent to a girl 
of fifteen ? Look up at your own room 
window ;-^you can just see it from where 
you sit. I'm glad that it is left opdn, as it 
ought to be, in so fine a day. But do you 
see what a black spot it looks, in the sun- 
lighted wall ? 

Lucilla. Yes, it looks as black as ink. 

L. Yet you know it is a very bright room 
when you are inside of it ; quite as bright 
as there is any occasion for it to be, that its 
little lady may see to keep it tidy. Well, it 
is very probable, also, that if you could look 
into your heart from the sun's point of view, 
it might appear a very black hole indeed : 
nay, the sun may sometimes think good to 
tell you that it looks so to Him ; but He will 
come into it, and make it very cheerful for 
you, for all that, if you don't put the shutters 
up. And the one question for you, remem- 
ber, is not " dark or light ? " but " tidy or 
untidy ? " Look well to your sweeping and 
garnishing ; and be sure it is only the ban- 
ished spirit, or some of the seven wickeder 
ones at his back, who will still whisper to 
you that it is all black. 



LECTURE 6. 

CRYSTAL QUARRELS. 



LECTURE VI. 

CRYSTAL QUARRELS. 

Full conclave, in Schoolroom. There has been a game of 
crystallization in the morning, of which various ac- 
count has to be rendered. In particular, everybody has 
to explain why they were always where they were not 
intended to be. 

L. {having received and considered the 
reported.*) You have got on pretty well, 
children : but you know these were easy 
figures you have been trying. Wait till I 
have drawn you out the plans of some 
crystals of snow ! 

Mary. I don't think those will be the most 
difficult : — they are so beautiful that we 
shall remember our places better ; and then 
they are all regular, and in stars : it is those 
twisty oblique ones we are afraid of. 

L. Read Carlyle's account of the battle of 
Leuthen, and learn Friedrich's " oblique 
order." You will "get it done for once, I 
think, provided you can march as a pair of 
compasses would." But remember, when 
you can construct the most difficult single 
figures, you have only learned half the game 



ii2 Cbe Btbics of tbe Dust. 

— nothing so much as the half, indeed, as 
the crystals themselves play it. 

Mary. Indeed ; what else is there ? 

L. It is seldom that any mineral crystal* 
lizes alone. Usually two or three, under 
quite different crystalline laws, form to- 
gether. They do this absolutely without 
flaw or fault, when they are in fine temper : 
and observe what this signifies. It signifies 
that the two, or more, minerals of different 
natures agree, somehow between them- 
selves, how much space each will want ; — 
agree which of them shall give way to the 
other at their junction ; or in what measure 
each will accommodate itself to the other's 
shape ! And then each takes its permitted 
shape, and allotted share of space ; yielding, 
or being yielded to, as it builds till eacli 
crystal has fitted itself perfectly and grace- 
fully to its differently-natured neighbor. 
So that, in order to practice this, in even the 
simplest terms, you must divide into two 
parties, wearing different colors ; each must 
choose a different figure to construct ; and 
you must form one of these figures through 
the other, both going on at the same 
time. 

Mary. I think we may perhaps manage 
it ; but I cannot at all understand how the 
crystals do. It seems to imply so much 
preconcerting of plan, and so much giving* 
way to each other, as if they really were 
living. 



Crystal ©uarrete. 113 

L. Yes, it implies both the concurrence 
and compromise, regulating all willfulness 
of design : and, more curious still, the crys- 
tals do not always give way to each other. 
They show exactly the same varieties of 
temper that human creatures might. Some- 
times they yield the required place with 
perfect grace and courtesy ; forming fan- 
tastic, but exquisitely finished groups : and 
sometimes they will not yield at all ; but 
fight furiously for their places, losing all 
shape and honor, and even their own like- 
ness, in the contest 

Mary. But is not that wholly wonderful ? 
How is it that one never sees it spoken of 
in books ? 

L. The scientific men are all busy in 
determining the constant laws under which 
the struggle takes place; these indefinite 
humors of the elements are of no interest to 
them. And unscientific people rarely give 
themselves the trouble of thinking at all, 
when they look at stones. Not that it is 
of much use to think ; the more one thinks, 
the more one is puzzled. 

Mary. Surely it is more wonderful than 
anything in botany ? 

L. Everything has its own wonders ; but, 
given the nature of the plant, it is easier to 
understand what a flower will do, and why 
it does it, than, given anything we as yet 
know of stone-nature, to understand what a 
crystal will do, and why it does it. You at 
8 



ii4 Cbe Ethics of tbe Dust* 

once admit a kind of volition and choice, in 
the flower ; but we are not accustomed to 
attribute anything of the kind to the crystal. 
Yet there is, in reality, more likeness to 
some conditions of human feeling among 
stones than among plants. There is a far 
greater difference between kindly-tempered 
and ill-tempered crystals of the same min- 
eral, than between any two specimens of the 
same flower : and the friendships and wars 
of crystals depend more definitely and curi- 
ously on their varieties of disposition, than 
any associations of flowers. Here, for in- 
stance, is a good garnet, living with good 
mica ; one rich red, and the other silver 
white ; the mica leaves exactly room enough 
for the garnet to crystallize comfortably in ; 
and the garnet lives happily in its little 
white houpse ; fitted to it, like a pholas in 
its cell. But here are wicked garnets living 
with wicked mica. See what ruin they 
make of each other ! You cannot tell which 
is which ; the garnets look like dull red stains 
on the crumbling stones. By the way, I 
never could understand, if St. Gothard is a 
Teal saint, why he can't keep his garnets in 
better order. These are all under his care ; 
but I suppose there are too many of them 
for him to look after. The streets of Airolo 
are paved with them. 

May. Paved with garnets ? 

L. With mica-slate and garnets ; I broke 
this bit out of a paving stone. Now garnets 



Crystal fituarrete* 115 

and mica are natural friends, and generally 
fond of each other ; but you see how they 
quarrel when they are ill brought up. So it 
is always. Good crystals are friendly with 
almost all other good crystals, however little 
they chance to see of each other, or how- 
ever opposite their habits may be ; while 
wicked crystals quarrel with one another, 
though they may be exactly alike in habits, 
and see each other continually. And of 
course the wicked crystals quarrel with the 
good ones. 

Isabel. Then do the good ones get an- 
jgry? 

L. No, never : they attend to their own 
work and life ; and live it as well as they 
can, though they are always the sufferers. 
Here, for instance, is a rock crystal of the 
purest race and finest temper, who was born, 
unhappily for him, in a bad neighborhood, 
near Beaufort in Savoy ; and he has had to 
fight with vile calcareous mud all his life. 
See here, when he was but a child, it came 
down on him, and nearly buried him ; a 
weaker crystal would have died in despair ; 
but he only gathered himself together, like 
Hercules against the serpents, and threw a 
layer of crystal over the clay ; conquered 
it, — imprisoned it, — and lived on. Then, 
when he was a little older, came more clay ; 
and poured itself upon him here, at the side ; 
and he has laid crystal over that, and lived 
On, in his purity. Then the clay came on 



n6 Gbe JEtbics of tbe Dust* 

at his angles, and tried to cover them, and 
round them away ; but upon that he threw" 
out buttress-crystals at his angles, all as true 
to his own central line as chapels round a 
cathedral apse ; and clustered them round 
the clay ; and conquered it again. At last 
the clay came on at his summit, and tried 
to blunt his summit ; but he could not en- 
dure that for an instant ; and left his flanks 
all rough, but pure ; and fought the clay at 
his crest, and built crest over crest and peak 
over peak, till the clay surrendered at last, 
and here is his summit, smooth and pure, 
terminating a pyramid of alternate clay and 
crystal, half a foot high ! 

Lily. Oh, how nice of him ! What a 
dear, brave crystal ! But I can't bear to see 
his flanks all broken, and the clay within 
them. 

L. Yes ; it was an evil chance for him r 
the being born to such contention ; there are 
some enemies so base that even to hold them 
captive is a kind of dishonor. But look, 
here has been quite a different kind of strug- 
gle : the adverse power has been more 
orderly, and has fought the pure crystal in 
ranks as firm as its own. This is not merr 
rage and impediment of crowded evil : here 
is a disciplined hostility ; army against army. 

Lily. Oh, but this is much more beautiful I 

L. Yes, for both the elements have true 
virtue in them ; it is a pity they are at war, 
but they war grandly. 



Crystal Quarrel 117 

Mary. But is this the same clay as in the 
other crystal ? 

L. I used the word clay for shortness. 
In both, the enemy is really limestone ; but 
in the first, disordered, and mixed with true 
clay ; while, here, it is nearly pure and crys- 
tallizes into its own primitive form, the 
oblique six-sided one, which you know : and 
out of these it makes regiments ; and then 
squares of the regiments, and so charges the 
Tock crystal, literally in square against col- 
umn. 

Isabel. Please, please, let me see. And 
what does the rock crystal do ? 

L. The rock crystal seems able to do 
nothing. The calcite cuts it through at every 
charge. Look here, — and here ! The love- 
liest crystal in the whole group is hewn fairly 
into two pieces. 

Isabel. Oh, dear ; but is the calcite harder 
than the crystal then ? 

L. No, softer. Very much softer. 

Mary. But then, how can it possibly cut 
the crystal? 

L. It did not really cut it, though it 
passes through it. The two were formed 
together, as I told you ; but no one knows 
how. Still, it is strange that this hard quartz 
has in all cases a good-natured way with it, 
of yielding to everything else. All sorts of 
soft things make nests for themselves in it ; 
and it never makes a nest for itself in any- 
thing. It has all the rough outside work; 



n8 Gbe Btbfcs of tbe Dust* 

and every sort of cowardly and weak mineral 
can shelter itself within it. Look ; these are 
hexagonal plates of mica ; if they were out- 
side of this crystal they would break, like 
burnt paper; but they are inside of it, — 
nothing can hurt them, — the crystal has 
taken them into its very heart, keeping all 
their delicate edges as sharp as if they were 
under water, instead of bathed in rock. 
Here is a piece of branched silver : you can 
bend it with a touch of your finger, but the 
stamp of its every fiber is on the rock in 
which it lay, as if the quartz had been as 
soft as wool. 

Lily. Oh, the good, good quartz ! But 
does it never get inside of anything ? 

L. As it is a little Irish girl who asks, I 
may perhaps answer, without being laughed 
at, that it gets inside of itself sometimes. 
But I don't remember seeing quartz make a 
nest for itself in anything else. 

Isabel. Please, there was something I 
heard you talking about, last time, with Miss 
Mary. I was at my lessons, but I heard 
something about nests ; and I thought it 
was birds' nests ; and I couldn't help listen- 
ing ; and then, I remember, it was about 
"nests of quartz in granite." I remember, 
because I was so disappointed ! 

L. Yes, mousie, you remember quite 
rightly ; but I can't tell you about those 
nests to-day, nor perhaps to-morrow ; but 
there's no contradiction between my saying 



Crystal (Sluarrete* 119 

then, and now ; I will show you that there 
is not, some day. Will you trust me mean- 
while ? 

Isabel. Won't I ! 

L. Well, then, look, lastly, at this piece 
of courtesy in quartz ; it is on a small scale, 
but wonderfully pretty. Here is nobly born 
quartz living with a green mineral, called 
epidote ; and they are immense friends. 
Now, you see, a comparatively large and 
strong quartz-crystal, and a very weak and 
slender little one of epidote, have begun to 
grow, close by each other, and sloping un- 
luckily towards each other, so that at last 
they meet. They cannot go on growing 
together ; the quartz crystal is five times as 
thick, and more than twenty times as 
strong, * as the epidote ; but he stops at once, 
just in the very crowning moment of his life, 
when he is building his own summit ! He 
lets the pale little film of epidote grow right 
past him ; stopping his own summit for it ; 
and he never himself grows any more. 

Lily {after some silence of wonder). But 
is the quartz never wicked then ? 

L. Yes, but the wickedest quartz seems 
good-natured, compared to other things. 
Here are two very characteristic examples ; 
one is good quartz, living with good pearl- 
spar, and the other, wicked quartz, living 

* Quartz is not much harder than epidote ; the 
strength is only supposed to be in some proportion to 
the squares of the diameters. 



120 Gbe jBtbice of tbe Dust* 

with wicked pearl-spar. In both, the quarts 
yields to the soft carbonate of iron : but, in 
the first place, the iron takes only what it 
needs of room ; and is inserted into the 
planes of the rock crystal with such precision 
that you must break it away before you can 
tell whether it really penetrates the quartz 
or not ; while the v crystals of iron are per- 
fectly formed, and have a lovely bloom on 
their surface besides. But, here, when the 
two minerals quarrel, the unhappy quartz 
has all its surface jagged and torn to pieces, 
and there is not a single iron crystal whose 
shape you can completely trace. But the 
quartz has the worst of it, in both instances. 

Violet. Might we look at that piece of 
broken quartz again, with the weak little 
film across it ? it seems such a strange love- 
ly thing, like the self-sacrifice of a human 
being. 

L. The self-sacrifice of a human being is 
not a lovely thing, Violet. It is often a 
necessary and noble thing ; but no form nor 
degree of suicide can be ever lovely. 

Violet. But self-sacrifice is not suicide ! 

L. What is it then ? 

Violet. Giving up one's self for another. 

L. Well ; and what do you mean by "giv- 
ing up one's self"? 

Violet. Giving up one's tastes, one's feel* 
ings, one's time, one's happiness, and so on, 
to make others happy. 

L» I hope you will never marry anybody, 



Crystal fituarrete* 121 

Violet, who expects you to make him happy 
in that way. 

Violet (hesitating). In what way ? 

L. By giving- up your tastes, and sacrific- 
ing your feelings, and happiness. 

Violet. No, no, I don't mean that ; but 
you know, for other people, one must. 

L. For people who don't love you, and 
whom you know nothing about? Be it so ; 
but how does this " giving up " differ from 
suicide then ? 

Violet. Why, giving up one's pleasures is 
not killing one's self? 

L. Giving up wrong pleasure is not ; nei- 
ther is it self-sacrifice, but self-culture. But 
giving up right pleasure is. If you surrender 
the pleasure of walking, your foot will 
wither : you may as well cut it off : if you 
surrender the pleasure of seeing, your eyes 
will soon be unable to bear the light ; you 
may as well pluck them out. And to maim 
yourself is partly to kill yourself. Do but 
go on maiming, and you will soon slay. 

Violet. But why do you make me think 
of that verse then, about the foot and the 
eye ? 

L. You are indeed commanded to cut off 
and to pluck out, if foot or eye offend you ; 
but why should they offend you? 

Violet. I don't know ; I never quite un- 
derstood that. 

L. Yet it is a sharp order ; one needing to 
be well understood if it is to be well obeyed I 



i22 Cbe JEtbiCB of tbe Dust, 

When Helen sprained her ankle the other 
day you saw how strongly it had to be 
bandaged ; that is to say, prevented from all 
work, to recover it. But the bandage was 
not " lovely/' 

Violet. No, indeed. 

L. And if her foot had been crushed, or 
diseased, or snake-bitten, instead of sprained 
it might have been needful to cut it off. 
But the amputation would not have been 
"lovely." 

Violet. No. 

L. Well, if eye and foot are dead already 
and betray you, — if the light that is in you be 
darkness, and you feet run into mischief, or 
are taken in the snare, — it is indeed time to 
pluck out, and cut off, I think : but, so crip- 
pled, you can never be what you might have 
been otherwise. You enter into life, at best, 
halt or maimed ; and the sacrifice is not 
beautiful, though necessary. 

Violet {after a pause). But when one 
sacrifices one's self for others ? 

L. Why not rather others for you ? 

Violet. Oh ! but I couldn't bear that 

L. Then why should they bear it ? 

Dora (pur sting in indignant). And Ther- 
mopylae, and Protesilaus, and Marcus Curtius, 
and Arnold de Winkelried, and Iphigenia and 
Jephthah's daughter? 

L. {sustaining the indignation unmoved). 
And the Samaritan woman's son? 

Dora. Which Smaritan woman's ? 



Crystal (Quarrels. 125 

L. Read 2 Kings vi. 29. 

Dora, (obeys). How horrid ! As if we 
meant anything like that ! 

L. You don't seem to me to know in the 
least what you do mean, children. What 
practical difference is there between " that," 
and what you are talking about ? The 
Samaritan children had no voice of their own 
in the business, it is true ; but neither had 
Iphigenia ; the Greek girl was certainly 
neither boiled, nor eaten ; but that only 
makes a difference in the dramatic effect ;. 
not in the principle. 

Dora {biting her lip). Well, then, tell u& 
what we ought to mean. As if you didn't 
teach it all to us, and mean it yourself, at 
this moment, more than we do, if you 
wouldn't be tiresome ! 

L. I mean, and always have meant, 
simply this, Dora ; — that the will of God 
respecting us is that we shall live by each, 
other's happiness, and life ; not by each 
other's misery, or death. I made you read 
that verse which so shocked you just now, 
because the relations of parent and child are 
typical of all beautiful human help. A child 
may have to die for its parents ; but the 
purpose of Heaven is that it shall rather live 
for them ; — that, not by its sacrifice, but by 
its strength, its joy, its force of being, it shall 
be to them renewal of strength ; and as the 
arrow in the hand of the giant. So it is in 
all other right relations. Men help each 



i24 Cbc *tWe* of tbe 2>ust. 

other by their joy, not by their sorrow. 
They are not intended to slay themselves 
for each other, but to strengthen themselves 
for each other. And among the many ap- 
parently beautiful things which turn, through 
mistaken use, to utter evil, I am not sure 
but that the thoughtlessly meek and self- 
sacrificing spirit of good men must be named 
as one of the fatalist. They have so often 
t>een taught that there is a virtue in mere 
suffering, as such ; and foolishly to hope that 
good may be brought by Heaven out of all 
on which Heaven itself has set the stamp of 
evil, that we may avoid it, — that they accept 
pain and defeat as if these were their ap- 
pointed portion ; never understanding that 
their defeat is not the less to bemournedbe- 
cause it is more fatal to their enemies than 
to them. The one thing that a good man 
has to do, and to see done, is justice ; he is 
neither to slay himself nor others cause-> 
lessly : so far from denying himself, since 
he is pleased by good, he is to do his utmost 
to get his pleasure accomplished. And I 
only wish there were strength, fidelity, and 
sense enough, among the good Englishmen 
of this day, to render it possible for them to 
faand together in a vowed brotherhood, to 
•enforce, by strength of heart and hand, the 
-doing of human justice among all who came 
within their sphere. And finally, for your 
own teaching, observe, although there may 
tie need for much self-sacrifice and self* 



Crystal (Quarrels. 125 

denial in the correction of faults of character, 
the moment the character is formed, the self- 
denial ceases. Nothing is really well done,, 
which it costs you pain to do. 

Violet. But surely, sir, you are always- 
pleased with us when we try to please others, 
and not ourselves? 

L. My dear child, in the daily course and 
discipline of right life, we must continually 
and reciprocally submit and surrender in all 
kind and courteous and affectionate ways : 
and these submissions and ministries to each 
other, of which you all know (none better) 
the practice and the preciousness, are as- 
good for the yielder as the receiver : they 
strengthen and perfect as much as they 
soften and refine. But the real sacrifice of all 
our strength, or life, or happiness to others 
(though it may be needed, and though all 
brave creatures hold their lives in their hand, 
to be given, when such need comes, as 
frankly as a soldier gives his life in battle), 
is yet always a mournful and momentary 
necessity : not the fulfillment of the contin- 
uous law of being. Self-sacrifice which is 
sought after, and triumphed in, is usually 
foolish ; and calamitous in its issue : and by 
the sentimental proclamation and pursuit of 
it, good people have not only made most of 
their own lives useless, but the whole frame- 
work of their religion so hollow, that at this 
moment, while the English nation, with its 
lips, pretends to teach every man to " love 



i26 Gbe jetbics of tbe Dust* 

his neighbor as himself/' with its hands and 
feet it clutches and tramples like a wild 
beast ; and practically lives, every soul of it 
that can, on other peoples labor. Briefly, 
the constant duty of every man to his fellows 
is to ascertain his own powers and special 
gifts ; and to strengthen them for the help 
of others. Do you think Titian would have 
helped the world better by denying himself, 
and not painting; or Casella by denying 
himself, and not singing ! The real virtue 
is to be ready to sing the moment people 
ask us ; as he was, even in purgatory. The 
very word " virtue " means not " conduct " 
"but "strength/' vital energy in the heart. 
Were not you reading about that group of 
words beginning withV, — vital, virtuous, 
vigorous, and so on, — in Max M tiller, the 
other day, Sibyl? Can't you tell the others 
about it? 

Sibyl. No, I can't ; will you tell us, please ? 

L. Not now, it is too late. Come to me 
some idle time to-morrow, and I'll tell you 
about it, if all's well. But the gist of it is, 
children, that you should at least know two 
Latin words ; recollect that "mors" means 
death and delaying ; and "vita" means life 
and growing : and try always, not to mor- 
tify yourselves, but to vivify yourselves. 

Violet. But, then, are we not to mortify 
our earthly affections ? and surely we are to 
sacrifice ourselves, at least in God's service, 
if not in mans ? 



Crystal (Sluarrete* 127 

L. Really, Violet, we are getting too seri- 
ous. I've given you enough ethics for one 
talk, I think ! Do let us have a little play. 
Lily, what were you so busy about, at the 
ant-hill in the wood, this morning ? 

Lily. Oh, it was the ants who were busy, 
not I ; I was only trying to help them a 
little. 

L. And they wouldn't be helped, I sup- 
pose? 

Lily. No, indeed. I can't think why 
ants are always so tiresome, when one tries 
to help them ! They were carrying bits of 
stick, as fast as they could, through a piece 
of grass ; and pulling and pushing, so hard ; 
and tumbling over and over, — it made one 
quite pity them ; so I took some of the bits 
of stick, and carried them forward a little, 
where I thought they wanted to put them ; 
but instead of being pleased, they left them 
directly, and ran about looking quite angry 
and frightened ; and at last ever so many 
of them got up my sleeves, and bit me all 
over, and I had to come away. 

L. I couldn't think what you were about 
I saw your French grammar lying on the 
grass behind you, and thought perhaps you 
had gone to ask the ants to hear you a 
French verb. 

Isabel. Ah ! but you didn't, though ! 

L. Why not, Isabel ? I knew, well enough, 
Lily couldn't learn that verb by herself. 

Isabel. No; but the ants couldn't help her. 



128 Cbe Etbfcs of tbe Dust. 

L. Are you sure the ants could not have 
helped you, Lily ? 

Lily {thinking). I ought to have learned 
something from them perhaps. 

L. But none of them left their sticks to help 
you through the irregular verb ? 

Lily. No, indeed. {Laughing, with some 
others. ) 

L. What are you laughing at, children ? I 
cannot see why the ants should not have 
left their tasks to help Lily in hers, — since 
here is Violet thinking she ought to leave 
her tasks, to help God in His. Perhaps, 
however, she takes Lily's more modest 
view, and thinks only that "He ought to 
learn something from her." 
{Tears in Violet's eyes.) 

Dora {scarlet). It's too bad — it's a shame ; 
— poor Violet ! 

L. My dear children, there's no reason 
who one should be so red, and the other so 
pale, merely because you are made for a 
moment to feel the absurdity of a phrase 
which you have been taught to use, in com- 
mon with half the religious world. There is 
but one way in which man can ever help 
God — that is, by letting God help him: and 
there is no way in which His name is more 
guiltily taken in vain, than by calling the 
abandonment of our own work, the per- 
formance of His. 

God is a kind Father. He sets us all in 
the places where He wishes us to be em- 



Crystal Quarreler 129 

ployed • and that employment is truly 
"our Father's business. " He chooses work 
for every creature which will be delightful 
to them, if they do it simply and humbly. 
He gives us always strength enough, and 
sense enough, for what He wants us to do ; 
if we either tire ourselves or puzzle ourselves, 
it is ourselves, it is our own fault. And we 
may always be sure, whatever we are doing, 
that we cannot be pleasing Him, if we are 
not happy ourselves. Now, away with you, 
children ; and be as happy as you can. And 
when you cannot, at least don't plume your- 
selves upon pouting. 



LECTURE 7, 

HOME VIRTUES. 



LECTURE VII. 

HOME VIRTUES. 
By thefireside> in the Drawing-room. Evening. 

Dora. Now, the curtains are drawn, and 
the fire's bright, and here's your arm-chair — 
and you're to tell us all about what you 
promised. 

L. All about what ? 

Dora. All about virtue. 

Kathleen. Yes, and about the words that 
begin with V. 

L. I heard you singing about a word that 
begins with V, in the playground, this morn- 
ing, Miss Katie. 

Kathleen. Me singing ! 

Mary. Oh, tell us— tell us. 

L. "Vilikens and his—" 

Kathleen (stopping his mouth). Oh ! please 
don't. Where were you ? 

Isabel. I'm sure I wish I had known where 
he was ! We lost him among the rhododen- 
drons, and I don't know where he got to ; 
oh, you naughty — naughty — (climbs on his 
knee). 

Dora. Now, Isabel, we really want to talk. 

133 



L. /don't. 

Dora. Oh, but you must. You promised, 
you know. 

L. Yes, if all was well ; but all's ill. I'm 
tired and cross ; and I won't 

Dora. You're not a bit tired, and you're 

notcrosser than two sticks ; and we'll make 

you talk, if you were crosser than six. Come 

here, Egypt ; and get on the other side of him. 

(Egypt takes up a commanding position 

near the hearth-brush. ) 

Dora (reviewing her forces). Now, Lily, 
come and sit on the rug in front. 
(Lily does as she is bid. ) 

L. (seeing he has no chance against the 
odds. ) Well, well ; but I'm really tired. Go 
and dance a little, first ; and let me think. 

Dora. No ; you mustn't think. You will 
be wanting to make us think next ; that will 
be tiresome. 

L. Well, go and dance first, to get quit of 
thinking : and then 111 talk as long as you 
like. 

Dora. Oh, but we can't dance to-night. 
There isn't time ; and we want to hear about 
virtue. 

L. Let me see a little of it first. Dancing 
is the first of girls virtues. 

Egypt. Indeed ! And the second ? 

L. Dressing. 

Egypt. Now, you needn't say that ! I 
mended that tear the first thing before break- 
fast this morning. 



Dome Xtixtuee. 135 

L. I cannot otherwise express the ethical 
principle, Egypt; whether you have mended 
your gown or not. 

Dora. Now don't be tiresome. We really 
must hear about virtue, please ; seriously. 

L. Well. I'm telling you about it, as fast 
as I can. 

Dora. What the first of girls' virtues is 
dancing ? 

L. More accurately, it is wishing to dance, 
and not wishing to tease, nor hear about 
virtue. 

Dora (to Egypt). Isn't he cross ? 

Egypt. How many balls must we go to in 
the season, to be perfectly virtuous ? 

L. As many as you can without losing 
your color. But I did not say you should 
wish to go to balls. I said you should be 
always wanting to dance. 

Egypt. So we do ; but everybody says it 
is very wrong. 

L. Why, Egypt, I thought — 

There was a lady once, 

That would not be a queen, — that would she not 

For all the mud in Egypt." 

You were complaining the other day of 
having to go out a great deal oftener than 
you liked. 

Egypt. Yes, so I was ; but then, it isn't 
to dance. There's no room to dance : it's — 
{Pausing to consider what it is for), 



136 Gbe JBtbice of tbe Dust* 

L. It is only to be seen, I suppose. Well, 
there's no harm in that. Girls ought to like 
to be seen. 

Dora (her eyes flashing). Now, you don't 
mean that ; and you're too provoking ; and 
we won't dance again, for a month. 

L. It will answer every purpose of re- 
venge, Dora, if you only banish me to the 
library ; and dance by yourselves ; but I 
don't think Jessie and Lily will agree to that 
You like me to see you dancing, don't you, 
Lily ? 

Lily. Yes, certainly, — when we do it 
rightly. 

L. And besides, Miss Dora, if young ladies 
really do not want to be seen, they should 
take care not let their eyes flash when they 
dislike what people say : and, more than 
that, it is all nonsense from beginning to 
end, about not wanting to be seen. I don't 
know any more tiresome flower in the bor- 
ders than your especially "modest" snow- 
drop ; which one always has to stoop down 
and take all sorts of tiresome trouble with, 
and nearly break its poor little head off, 
before you can see it, and then, half of it 
is not worth seeing. Girls should be like 
daisies ; nice and white, with an edge of red, 
if you look close ; making the ground bright 
wherever they are ; knowing simply and 
quietly that they do it, and are meant to do 
it, and that it would be very wrong if they 
didn't do it Not want to be seen, indeed ! 



Dome Wrtues. 137 

How long" were you in doing up your back 
hair this afternoon, Jessie ? 

(Jessie not immediately answering, Dora 
comes to her assistance. ) 

Dora. Not above three-quarters of an 
hour, I think, Jess? 

Jessie (putting her finger ufi). Now, Doro- 
thy, you needn't talk, you know ! 

L. I know she needn't, Jessie ; I shall 
ask her about those dark plaits presently. 
(Dora looks round to see if there is any way 
open for retreat.} But never mind; it was 
worth the time, whatever it was , and no- 
body will ever mistake that golden wreath 
for a chignon : but if you don't want it to 
be seen you had better wear a cap. 

Jessie. Ah, now, are you really going to 
do nothing but play ? And we all have been 
thinking, and thinking, all day ; and hoping 
you would tell us things ; and now — ! 

L. And now I am telling you things, and 
true things, and things good for you ; and 
you won't believe me. You might as well 
have let me go to sleep at once, as I wanted 
to. {Endeavors again to make himself com* 
fortable. ) 

Isabel. Oh, no, no, you sha'n't go to sleep, 
you naughty ! — Kathleen, come here. 

L. (knowing what he has to expect ^Kath- 
leen comes. ) Get away, Isabel, you're too 
heavy. (Sitting up.) What have I been 
saying ? 

Dora. I do believe he has been asleep all 



138 Gbe Btbics of tbe 2>ust* 

the time ! You never heard anything like 
the things you've been saying. 

L. Perhaps not. If you have heard them, 
and anything like them, it is all I want. 

Egypt. Yes, but we don't understand, and 
you know we don't ; and we want to. 

L. What did I say first ? 

Dora. That the first virtue of girls was 
wanting to go to balls. 

L. I said nothing of the kind. 

Jessie. " Always wanting to dance," you 
said. 

L. Yes, and that's true. Their first virtue 
is to be intensely happy ; — so happy that 
they don't know what to do with themselves 
for happiness, — and dance, instead of walk- 
ing. Don't you recollect "Louisa/' 

" No fountain from a rocky cave 
E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
She seemed as happy as a wave 
That dances on the sea." 

A girl is always like that, when everything's 
right with her. 

Violet. But, surely, one must be sad 
sometimes ? 

L. Yes, Violet ; and dull sometimes, and 
stupid sometimes, and cross sometimes. 
What must be, must ; but it is always either 
our own fault, or somebody else's. The last 
and worst thing that can be said of a nation 
is, that it has made its young girls sad, and 
Weary. 



Dome IDirtuoe* 



i39 



May. But I am sure I have heard a great 
many good people speak against dancing ? 

L. Yes, May ; but it does not follow they 
were wise as well as good. I suppose they 
think Jeremiah liked better to have to write 
Lamentations for his people, than to have 
to write that promise for them, which every- 
body seems to hurry past, tnat they may get 
on quickly to the verse about Rachel weep- 
ing for her children ; though the verse they 
pass is the counter blessing to that one : 
"Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance ; 
and both young men and old together ; and 
I will turn their mourning into joy." 

(The children get very serious, but look 
at each other as if pleased. ) 

Mary. They understand now : but, do you 
know what you said next ? 

L. Yes ; I was not more than half asleep. 
I said their second virtue was dressing. 

Mary. Well ! what did you mean by that ? 

L. What do you mean by dressing ? 

Mary. Wearing fine clothes. 

L. Ah ! there's the mistake. / mean 
wearing plain ones. 

Mary. Yes, I dare say ! but that's not what 
girls understand by dressing, you know. 

L. I can't help that. If they understand 
by dressing, buying dresses, perhaps they 
also understand by drawing, buying pictures. 
But when I hear them say they can draw, I 
understand that they can make a drawing ; 
and when I hear them say they can dress ; I 



i4o ttbe fitbics of tbe 5>u$t* 

understand that they can make a dress and 
— which is quite as difficult — wear one. 

Dora. I'm not sure about the making ; for 
the wearing, we can all wear them — out, 
before anybody expects it. 

Egypt {aside to L., piteously). Indeed I 
have mended that torn flounce quite neatly ; 
look if I haven't ! 

L. (aside to Egypt). All right ; don't be 
afraid. (Aloud to Dora.) Yes, doubtless; 
but you know that is only a slow way of 
undressing. 

Dora. Then, we are all to learn dress- 
making, are we ? 

L. Yes ; and always to dress yourselves 
beautifully — not finely, unless on occasion ; 
but then very finely and beautifully, too. 
Also, you are to dress as many other people 
as you can ; and to teach them how to dress, 
if they don't know ; and to consider every 
ill-dressed woman or child whom you see 
anywhere, as a personal disgrace ; and to 
get at them, somehow, until everybody is 
as beautifully dressed as birds. 

(Silence; the children drawing their 
breaths hard, as if 't h ey had come from 
under a shower bath. ) 

L. (seeing objections begin to express them- 
selves in the eyes). Now you needn't say 
you can't ; for you can and it's what you 
were meant to do, always ; and to dress 
your houses and your gardens, too ; and to 
do very little else, I believe, except singing ; 



1bome \IM rtues* 141 

and dancing, as we said, of course and — one 
thing more. 

Dora. Our third and last virtue, I suppose ? 

L. Yes ; on Violet's system of triplicities. 

Dora. Well, we are prepared for anything 
now. What is it ? 

L. Cooking. 

Dora. Cardinal, indeed ! If only Beatrice 
were here with her seven handmaids, that 
she might see what a fine eighth we had 
found for her ! 

Mary, And the interpretation ? What does 
•* cooking " mean ? 

L. It means the knowledge of Medea, and 
of Circe, and of Calypso, and of Helen, and 
of Rebekah, and of the Queen of Sheba. It 
means the knowledge of all herbs, and fruits, 
and balms, and spices ; and of all that is heal- 
ing and sweet in fields and groves, and 
savory in meats ; it means carefulness, and 
inventiveness, and watchfulness, and will- 
ingness, and readiness of appliance • it means 
the economy of your great-grandmothers, 
and the science of modern chemists ; it means 
much tasting, and no wasting ; it means 
English thoroughness, and French art, and 
Arabian hospitality ; it means, in fine, that 
you are to be perfectly and always "ladies " 
— "loaf-givers," and, as you are to see, im- 
peratively, that everybody has something 
pretty to put on,— so you are to see, yet 
more imperatively, that everybody has some* 
thing nice to eat. 



142 XLbc JEtbice of tbe Dust* 

(Another pause, and long drawn breath. ) 

Dora {slowly recovering herself to Egypt). 
We had better have let him go to sleep, I 
think, after all ! 

L. You had better let the younger ones go 
to sleep now : for I haven't half done. 

Isabel (panic-struck). Oh ! please, please ! 
just one quarter of an hour. 

L. No, Isabel ; I cannot say what I've got 
to say in a quarter of an hour, and it is too 
hard for you, besides : — you would be lying 
awake, and trying to make it out, half the 
night. That will never do. 

Isabel. Oh, please ! 

L. It would please me exceedingly, 
mousie : but there are times when we must 
both be displeased ; more's the pity. Lily 
may stay for half an hour, if she likes. 

Lily. I can't, because Isey never goes to 
sleep, if she is waiting for me to come. 

Isabel. Oh, yes, Lily ; I'll go to sleep to- 
night. I will, indeed. 

Lily. Yes, it's very likely. Isey, with 
those fine round eyes ! (To L.) You'll tell 
me something of what you've been saying 
to-morrow, won't you ? 

L. No, I won't, Lily. You must choose. 
It's only in Miss Edgeworth's novels that 
one can do right, and hare one's cake and 
sugar afterwards, as well (not that I consider 
the dilemma, to-night, so grave). 

(Lily sighing, lakes Isabel's hand. ) 

Yes, Lily dear, it will be better, in the 



f>ome liMttues* 143 

outcome of it, so, than if you were to hear 
all the talks that ever were talked, and all 
the stories that ever were told. Good-night. 
{The door leading to the condemned cells 
of the Dormitory closes on Lily, Isabel, 
Florrie, and other diminutive and sub- 
missive victims.) 

Jessie {after a pause). Why, I thought 
you were so fond of Miss Edgeworth. 

L. So I am ; and so you ought all to be. 
I can read her over and over again, without 
ever tiring; there's no one whose every 
page is so full, and so delightful ; no one 
who brings you into the company of pleas- 
anter or wiser people ; no one who tells you 
more truly how to do right. And it is very 
nice, in the midst of a wild world, to have 
the very ideal of poetical justice done always 
to one's hand : — to have everybody found 
out, who tells lies; and everybody decorated 
with a red ribbon, who doesn't ; and to see 
the good Laura, who gave away her half 
sovereign, receiving a grand ovation from 
an entire dinner party disturbed for the pur- 
pose ; and poor, dear, little Rosamond, who 
chooses purple jars instead of new shoes, 
left at last without either her shoes or her 
bottle. But it isn't life : and, in the way 
children might easily understand it, it isn't 
morals. 

Jessie. How do you mean we might under- 
stand it ? 

Lk You might think Miss Edgeworth 



144 ^ bc JBtbiCB of tbe 2>u6t» 

meant that the right was to be done mainly 
because one is always rewarded for doing it 
It is an injustice to her to say that ; her 
heroines always do right simply for its own 
sake, as they should ; and her examples of 
conduct and motive are wholly admirable. 
But her representation of events is false and 
misleading. Her good characters never are 
bf ought into the deadly trial of goodness,— 
the doing right, and suffering for it, quite 
finally. And that is life, as God arranges it 
"Taking up one's cross" does not at all 
mean having ovations at dinnerparties, and 
being put over everybody else's head. 

Dora. But what does it mean then ? That 
is just what we couldn't understand, when 
you were telling us about not sacrificing 
ourselves, yesterday. 

L. My dear, it means simply that you are 
to go the road which you see to be the 
straight one ; carrying whatever you find is 
given you to carry, as well and stoutly as 
you can ; without making faces, or calling 
people to come and look at you. Above all, 
you are neither to load, nor unload, your- 
self; nor cut your cross to your own liking. 
Some people think it would be better for 
them to have it large ; and many, that they 
could carry it much faster if it were small ; 
and even those who like it largest are usually 
very particular about its being ornamental, 
and made of the best ebony. But all that 
you have really to do is to keep your back as 



*ome Virtues 145 

straight as you can ; and not think about 
what is upon it — above all, not to boast of 
what is upon it. The real and essential 
meaning of * ' virtue " is in that straightness 
of back. Yes; you may laugh, children, 
but it is. You know I was to tell you about 
the words that began with V. Sibyl, what 
does " virtue" mean literally? 

Sibyl. Does it mean courage ? 

L. Yes ; but a particular kind of courage. 
It means courage of the nerve ; vital cour- 
age. That first syllable of it, if you look in 
Max Miiller, you will find really means 
"nerve," and from it come "vis," and 
"vir," and "virgin" (through vireo), and 
the connected word " virga" — " a rod; "-— 
the green rod, or springing bough of a tree, 
being the type of perfect human strength, 
both in the use of it in the Mosaic story, 
when it becomes a serpent, or strikes 
the rock ; or when Aaron's bears its al- 
monds ; and in the metaphorical expres- 
sions, the "Rod out of the stem of Jesse," 
and the "Man whose name is the Branch," 
and so on. And the essential idea of real 
virtue is that of a vital human strength, 
whichtnstinctively, constantly, and without 
motive, does what is right. You must train 
men to this by habit, as you would the 
branch of a tree ; and give them instincts 
and manners (or morals) of purity, justice, 
kindness, and courage. Once rightly 
trained, they act as they should irrespect- 
10 



146 Cbe JEtbice ot tbe 2>ust* 

ively of all motive, of fear, or of reward 
It is the blackest sign of putrescence in a 
national religion, when men speak as if it 
were the only safeguard of conduct ; and 
assume that, but for the fear of being 
burned, or for the hope of being rewarded, 
everybody would pass their lives in lying, 
stealing, and murdering. I think quite one 
of the notablest historical events of this 
century (perhaps the very notablest), was 
that council of clergymen, horror-struck 
at the idea of any diminution in our dread of 
hell, at which the last of English clergymen 
whom one would have expected to see in 
such a function, rose as the devil's advocate ; 
to tell us how impossible it was we could get 
on without him. 

Violet {after a pause). But, surely, if 
people weren't afraid — {hesitates again). 

L. They should be afraid of doing wrong, 
and of that only, my dear. Otherwise, if 
they only don't do wrong for fear of being 
punished, they have done wrong in their 
hearts already. 

Violet. Well, but surely, at least one 
ought to be afraid of displeasing God ; and 
ones desire to please Him should be one's 
€rst motive ? 

L. He never would be pleased with us, if 
it were, my dear. When a father sends his 
son out into the world — suppose as an ap- 
prentice — fancy the boy's coming home at 
night, and saying, " Father, I could have 



t>ome Wfrtuea*.. 147 

robbed the till to-day ; but I didn't, be- 
cause I thought you wouldn't like it. " Do 
you think the father would be particularly 
pleased ? 

(Violet is silent.) 

He would answer, would he not, if he 
were wise and good, " My boy, though you 
had no father, you must not rob tills " ? And 
nothing is ever done so as really to please 
our Great Father, unless we would also have 
done it, though we had no Father to know 
of it. 

Violet {after long pause). But, then, 
what continual threatenings, and promises 
of reward there are ! 

L. And how vain both ! with the Jews, 
and with all of us. But the fact is, that the 
threat and promise are simple statements of 
the Divine law, and of its consequences. 
The fact is truly told you, — make what use 
you may of it : and as collateral warning, or 
encouragement, comfort, the knowledge of 
future consequences may often be helpful to 
us ; but helpful chiefly to the better state 
when we can act without reference to them. 
And there's no measuring the poisoned in- 
fluence of that notion of future reward on the 
mind of Christian Europe, in the early ages. 
Half the monastic system rose out of that, 
acting on the occult pride and ambition of 
good people (as the other half of it came of 
their follies and misfortunes). There is al- 
ways a considerable quantity of pride, to 



148 Gbe jetbice of tbe Dust* 

begin with, in what is called " giving one's 
self to God." As if one had ever belonged 
to anybody else ! 

Dora. But, surely, great good has come 
out of the monastic system — our books, — 
our sciences — all saved by the monks ? 

L. Saved from what, my dear? From 
the abyss of misery and ruin which that false 
Christianity allowed the whole active world 
to live in. When it had become the princi- 
pal amusement, and the most admired art 
of Christian men, to cut one another's 
throats, and burn one another's towns ; of 
course the few feeble or reasonable persons 
left, who desired quiet, safety, and kind 
fellowship, got into cloisters ; and the gen- 
tlest, thoughtfullest, noblest men and women 
shut themselves up, precisely where they 
could be of least use. Th y are very fine 
things, for us painters, now — the towers 
and white arches upon the tops of the rocks ; 
always in places where it takes a day's 
climbing to get at them ; but the intense 
tragi-comedy of the thing, when one thinks 
of it, is unspeakable. All the good people 
of the world getting themselves hung up 
out of the way of mischief, like Bailie Nicol 
Jarvie ; — poor little lambs, as it were, dan- 
gling there for the sign of the Golden 
Fleece ; or like Socrates in his basket in 
the *' Clouds " ! (I must read you that bit of 
Aristophanes again, by the way.) And be- 
lieve me, children, I am no warped wit- 



Dome Virtue*. 149 

ness, as far as regards monasteries ; or if 
I am, it is in their favor. I have always 
had a strong* leaning that way ; and have 
pensively shivered with Augustines at St. 
Bernard ; and happily made hay with Fran- 
ciscans at Fesole ; and sat silent with Car- 
thusians in their little gardens, south of 
Florence ; and mourned through many a 
day-dream, at Melrose and Bolton. But 
the wonder is always to me, not how much, 
but how little, the monks have, on the 
whole, done, with all that leisure, and all 
that good-will ! What nonsense monks 
characteristically wrote ; — what little prog- 
ress they made in the sciences to which 
they devoted themselves as a duty, — medi- 
cine especially ; and, last and worst, what 
depths of degradation they can sometimes 
see one another, and the population round 
them, sink into ; without either doubting 
their system, or reforming it ! 

(Seeing- questions rising to lips.) Hold 
your little tongues, children ; it's very late, 
and you'll make me forget what I've to say. 
Fancy yourselves in pews, for five minutes. 
There's one point of possible good in the 
conventual system, which is always attrac- 
tive to young girls ; and the idea is a very 
dangerous one ; — the notion of a merit, or 
exalting virtue, consisting in a habit of medi- 
tation on the ' ' things above, " or things of 
the next world. Now it is quite true, that a 
person of beautiful mind, dwelling on what* 



150 £be Btbics of tbe Bust* 

ever appears to them most desirable and 
lovely in a possible future,, will not only pass 
their time pleasantly, but will even acquire, 
at last, a vague and wildly gentle charm of 
manner and feature, which will give them 
an air of peculiar sanctity in the eyes of 
others. Whatever real or apparent good 
there may be in this result, I want you to 
observe, children, that we have no real au- 
thority for the reveries to which it is owing. 
We are told nothing distinctly of the heavenly 
world ; except that it will be free from sor- 
row, and pure from sin. What is said of 
pearl gates, golden floors, and the like, is 
accepted as merely figurative by religious 
enthusiasts themselves ; and whatever they 
pass their time in conceiving, whether of the 
happiness of risen souls, of their intercourse, 
or of the appearance and employment of the 
heavenly powers, is entirely the product of 
their own imagination ; and as completely 
and distinctly a work of fiction, or romantic 
invention, as any novel of Sir Walter Scott's. 
That the romance is founded on religious 
theory or doctrine ; — that no disagreeable 
or wicked persons are admitted into the 
story ; — and that the inventor fervently hopes 
that some portion of it may hereafter come 
true, does not in the least alter the real nature 
of the effort or enjoyment. 

Now, whatever indulgence may be granted 
to amiable people for pleasing themselves 
in this innocent way, it is beyond question, 



f>ome Virtues, 151 

that to seclude themselves from the rough 
duties of life, merely to write religious ro- 
mances, or, as in most cases merely to dream, 
them, without taking so much trouble as is 
implied in writing, ought not to be received 
as an act of heroic virtue. But, observe, 
even in admitting thus much, I have as- 
sumed that the fancies are just and beautiful, 
though fictitious. Now what right have any 
of us to assume that our own fancies will 
assuredly be either the one or the other? 
That they delight us, and appear lovely to 
us, is no real proof of its not being wasted 
time to form them : and we may surely be 
led somewhat to distrust our judgment of 
them by observing what ignoble imagina- 
tions have sometimes sufficiently, or even 
enthusiastically occupied the hearts of others. 
The principal source of the spirit of religious 
contemplation is the East ; now I have here 
in my hand a Byzantine image of Christ, 
which, if you will look at it seriously, may, 
I think, at once and forever render you cau- 
tious in the indulgence of a merely contem- 
plative habit of mind. Observe, it is the 
fashion to look at such a thing only as a 
piece of barbarous art ; that is the smallest 
part of its interest. What I want you to see 
is the baseness and falseness of a religious 
state of enthusiasm in which such a work 
could be dwelt upon with pious pleasure. 
That a figure, with two small round black 
beads foreyes ; a gilded face, deep cut into, 



152 Zbc Etbfcs of tbe Bust/ 

horrible wrinkles ; an open gash for a mouth, 
and a distorted skeleton for a body, wrapped 
about, to make it fine, with striped enamel 
of blue and gold ; that such a figure, I say, 
should ever have been thought helpful to- 
wards the conception of a Redeeming Deity, 
may make you, I think, very doubtful, even 
of the Divine approval, — much more of the 
Divine inspiration, — of religious reverie in 
general. You feel, doubtless, that your own 
idea of Christ would be something very dif- 
ferent from this ; but in what does the differ- 
ence consist ? Not in any more divine au- 
thority in your imagination ; but in the in- 
tellectual work of six intervening centuries ; 
which, simply, by artistic discipline, has 
refined this crude conception for you, and 
filled you, partly with an innate sensation, 
partly with an acquired knowledge, of higher 
forms, — which render this Byzantine crucifix 
as horrible to you, as it was pleasing to its 
maker. More is required to excite your fancy ; 
but your fancy is of no more authority than 
his was : and a point of national art-skill is 
quite conceivable, in which the best we can 
do now will be as offensive to the religious 
dreamers of the more highly cultivated time, 
as this Byzantine crucifix is to you. 

Mary. But surely, Angelico will always 
retain his power over everybody ? 

L. Yes, I should think, always; as the 
gentle words of a child will : but you would 
be much surprised, Mary, if you thoroughly 



Ibome Wrtues* 153 

took the pains to analyze, and had the per- 
fect means of analyzing, that power of An- 
gelico, — to discover its real sources. Of 
course it is natural, at first, to attribute it to 
the pure religious fervor by which he was 
inspired ; but do you suppose Angelico was 
really the only monk, in all the Christian 
world of the middle ages, who labored, in 
art, with a sincere religious enthusiasm ? 

Mary. No, certainly not. 

L. Anything more frightful, more destruc- 
tive of all religious faith whatever, than 
such a supposition, could not be. And yet, 
what other monk ever produced such work? 
I have myself examined carefully upwards 
of two thousand illuminated missals, with 
especial view to the discovery of any evi- 
dence of a similar result upon the art, from 
the monkish devotion ; and utterly in vain. 

Mary. But then, was not Fra Angelico a 
man of entirely separate and exalted genius ? 

L. Unquestionably ; and granting him to 
be that, the peculiar phenomenon in his art 
is, to me, not its loveliness, but its weak- 
ness. The effect of " inspiration," had it 
been real, on a man of consummate genius, 
should have been, one would have thought, 
to make everything that he did faultless and 
strong, no less than lovely. But of all men, 
deserving to be called " great," Fra Angelico 
permits to himself the least pardonable faults, 
and the most palpable follies. There is 
evidently within him a sense of grace, and 



154 Gbe Etbics of tbe Duet* 

power of invention, as great as Ghiberti's :— 
we are in the habit of attributing those high 
qualities to his religious enthusiasm ; but, 
if they were produced by that enthusiasm 
in him, they ought to be produced by the 
same feelings in others ; and we see they 
are not. Whereas, comparing him with 
contemporary great artists, of equal grace 
and invention, one peculiar character re- 
mains notable in him — which, logically, we 
ought therefore to attribute to the religious 
fervor; — and that distinctive character is, 
the contented indulgence of his own weak- 
nesses, and perseverance in his own igno- 
rances. 

Mary. But that's dreadful ! And what is 
the source of the peculiar charm which we 
all feel in his word ? 

L. There are many sources of it, Mary ; 
united and seeming like one. You would 
never feel that charm but in the work of an 
entirely good man ; be sure of that ; but the 
goodness is only the recipient and modify- 
ing element, not the creative one. Consider 
carefully what delights you in any original 
picture of Angelico's. You will find, for 
one minor thing, an exquisite variety and 
brightness of ornamental work. That is not 
Angelico's inspiration. It is the final result 
of the labor and thought of millions of artists, 
of all nations ; from the earliest Egyptian 
potters downwards — Greeks, Byzantines, 
Hindoos, Arabs, Gauls, and Northmen — all 



t)ome X&ivtuee. 155 

joining in the toil ; and consummating it in 
Florence, in that century, with such em- 
broidery of robe and inlaying of armor as 
had never been seen till then ; nor probably, 
ever will- be seen more. Angelico merely 
takes his share of this inheritance, and ap- 
plies it in the tenderest way to subjects 
which are peculiarly acceptant of it. But 
the inspiration, if it exists anywhere, flashes 
on the knight's shield quite as radiantly as 
on the monk's picture. Examining farther 
into the source of your emotions in the An- 
gelico work, you will find much of the im- 
pression of sanctity dependent on a singular 
repose and grace of gesture, consummating 
itself in the floating, flying, and above all, 
in the dancing groups. That is not Angel- 
ico's inspiration. It is only a peculiarly 
tender use of systems of grouping which had 
been long before developed by Giotto, Mem- 
mi, and Orcagna ; and the real root of it 
all is simply — What do you think, children ? 
The beautiful dancing of the Florentine 
maidens ! 

Dora {indignant again). Now, I wonder 
what next ! Why not say it all depended 
on Herodias' daughter, at once ? 

L. Yes ; it is certainly a great argument 
against singing that there were once sirens. 

Dora. Well, it may be all very fine and 
philosophical, but shouldn't I just like to 
read you the end of the second volume of 
. " Modern Painters " I - 



156 Gbe JBtbice of tbe Dust 

L. My dear, do you think any teachef 
could be worth your listening to, or anybody 
else's listening to, who had learned nothing, 
and altered his mind in nothing, from seven 
and twenty to seven and forty? But that 
second volume is very good for you as far 
as it goes. It is a great advance, and a 
thoroughly straight and swift one, to be led, 
as it is the main business of that second 
volume to lead you, from Dutch cattle-pieces, 
and ruffian-pieces, to Fra Angelico. And 
it is right for you also, as you grow older, 
to be strengthened in the general sense and 
judgment which may enable you to distin- 
guish the weaknesses from the virtues o£ 
what you love, else you might come to love 
both alike ; or even the weaknesses without 
the virtues. You might end by liking Over- 
beck and Cornelius as well as Angelico. 
However, I have perhaps been leaning a 
little too much to the merely practical side 
of things, in to-night's talk ; and you are 
always to remember, children, that I do not 
deny, though I cannot affirm, the spiritual 
advantages resulting, in certain cases, from 
enthusiastic religious reverie, and from the 
other practices of saints and anchorites. 
The evidence respecting them has never yet 
been honestly collected, much less dispas- 
sionately examined : but assuredly, there is 
in that direction a probability, and more 
than a probability, of dangerous error, while 
there is none whatever in the practice of an 



t>omc Wrtues, 



157 



active, cheerful, and benevolent life. The 
hope of attaining a higher religious position, 
which induces us to encounter, for its exalted 
alternative, the risk of unhealthy error, is 
often, as I said, founded more on pride than 
piety ; and those who, in modest useful- 
ness, have accepted what seemed to them 
here the lowliest place in the kingdom of 
their Father, are not, I believe, the least 
likely to receive hereafter the command, 
then unmistakable, "Friend, go up higher/* 



LECTURE 3. 

CRYSTAL CAPRICE. 



LECTURE VIIL 

CRYSTAL CAPRICE. 

Formal Lecture in Schoolroom, after some practical e& 

amination of minerals 

L. We have seen enough, children, though 
very little of what might be seen if we had 
more time, of mineral structures produced 
by visible opposition, or contest among 
elements ; structures of which the variety, 
however great, need not surprise us : for we 
quarrel, ourselves, for many and slight 
causes ; — much more, one should think, 
may crystals, who can only feel the antag- 
onism, not argue about it. But there is a 
yet more singular mimicry of our human 
ways in the varieties of form which appear 
owing to no antagonistic force ; but merely 
to the variable humor and caprice of the 
crystals themselves : and I have asked you 
all to come into the schoolroom to-day, 
because, of course, this is a part of the crys- 
tal mind which must be peculiarly interest- 
ing to a feminine audience. (Great symp- 
toms of disapproval on the part of said 
audience.} Now you need not pretend that 
ii 161 



1 62 Zbc JEtbfcs of the 2>ust. 

it will not interest you ; why should it not ? 
It is true that we men are never capricious ; 
but that only makes us the more dull and 
disagreeable. You, who are crystalline in 
brightness, as well as in caprice, charm in- 
finitely, by infinitude of change. (Audible 
murmurs of" Worse and worse!" "As if 
we could be got over that way I " Etc. The 
Lecturer, however, observing- the expression 
of the features to be more complacent, pro- 
ceeds.} And the most curious mimicry, if 
not of your changes of fashion, at least of 
your various modes (in healthy periods) of 
national costume, takes place among the 
crystals of different countries. With a* little 
experience, it is quite possible to say at a 
glance, in what districts certain crystals 
have been found ; and although, if we had 
knowledge extended and accurate enough, 
we might of course ascertain the laws and 
circumstances which have necessarily pro- 
duced the form peculiar to each locality, this 
would be just as true of the fancies of the 
human mind. If we could know the exact 
circumstances which affect it, we could fore- 
tell what now seems to us only caprice of 
thought, as well as what now seems to us 
only caprice of crystal : nay, so far as our 
knowledge reaches, it is on the whole easier 
to find some reason why the peasant girls 
of Berne should wear their caps in the shape 
of butterflies ; and the peasant girls of 
Munich theirs in the shape of shells, than to 



Crystal Caprice, 163 

say why the rock-crystals of Dauphine 
should all have their summits of the shape 
of lip-pieces of flageolets, while those of St 
Gothard are symmetrical ; or why the fluor 
of Chamouni is rose-colored, and in octahe- 
drons, while the fluor of Weardale is green, 
and in cubes. Still farther removed is the 
hope, at present, of accounting for minor 
differences in modes of grouping and con- 
struction. Take, for instance, the caprices 
of this single mineral, quartz ; — variations 
upon a single theme. It has many forms ; 
but see what it will make out of this one, 
the six-sided prism. For shortness* sake, 
I shall call the body of the prism its 
"column," and the pyramid at the extremi- 
ties its " cap/' Now, here first you have a 
straight column, as long and thin as a stalk 
of asparagus, with two little caps at the 
ends ; and here you have a short thick 
column, as solid as a haystack, with two fat 
caps at the ends ; and here you have two 
caps fastened together, and no column at 
all between them ! Then here is a crystal 
with its column fat in the middle, and taper- 
ing to a little cap ; and here is one stalked 
like a mushroom, with a huge cap put on 
the top of a slender column ! Then here is 
a column built wholly out of little caps, with 
a large smooth cap at the top. And here is 
a column built of columns and caps ; the 
caps all truncated about half-way to their 
points. And in both these last, the little 



164 Gbe JEtbfcs of tbe 2>ust* 

crystals are set anyhow, and build the large 
one in a disorderly way ; but here is a crys* 
tal made of columns and truncated caps, 
set in regular terraces all the way up. 

Mary. But are not these groups of crystals, 
rather than one crystal ? 

L. What do you mean by a group, and 
what by one crystal ? 

Dora (audibly aside, to Mary, wl o is brought 
to pause). You know you are never ex- 
pected to answer, Mary. 

L. I'm sure this is easy enough. What 
do you mean by a group of people ? 

Mary. Three or four together, or a good 
many together, like the caps in these crys- 
tals. 

L. But when a great many persons get 
together they don't take the shape of one 
person ? 

(Mary still at pause. ) 

Isabel. No, because they can't ; but you 
know the crystals can ; so why shouldn't 
they? 

il Well, they don't ; that is to say, they 
don't always, nor even often. Look here, 
Isabel. 

Isabel. What a nasty ugly thing ! 

L. I'm glad you think it so ugly. Yet it 
is made of beautiful crystals ; they are a little 
gray and cold in color, but most of them 
are clear. 

Isabel. But they're in such horrid, hor« 
lid disorder 1 



Crystal Caprice* 165 

L. Yes ; all disorder is horrid, when it is 
among things that are naturally orderly* 
Some little girls' rooms are naturally disor- 
derly, I suppose ; or I don't know how they 
could live in them, if they cry out so when 
they only see quartz crystals in confusion. 

Isabel. Oh ! but how come they to be like 
that? 

L. You may well ask. And yet you will 
always hear people talking as if they thought 
order more wonderful than disorder 1 It 
is wonderful — as we have seen ; but to me, 
as to you, child, the supremely wonderful 
thing is that nature should ever be ruinous, 
or wasteful, or deathful ! I look at this wild 
piece of crystallization with endless astonish- 
ment. 

Mary. Where does it come from ? 

L. The Tete Noire of Chamounix. What 
makes it more strange is that it should be in 
a vain of fine quartz. If it were in a mold* 
ering rock, it would be natural enough ; but 
in the midst of so fine substance, here are 
the crystals tossed in a heap ; some large, 
myriads small (almost as small as dust), 
tumbling over each other like a terrified 
crowd, and glued together by the sides, and 
edges, and backs, and heads ; some warped, 
and some pushed out and in, and all spoiled, 
and each spoiling the rest. 

Mary. And how flat they all are ! 

L. Yes; that's the fashion at the TSte 
Noire, 



1 66 Cbe jetbice of tbe 5>ust* 

Mary. But surely this is ruin, not cap* 
rice ! 

L. I believe it is in great part misfortune ; 
and we will examine these crystal troubles 
in next lecture. But if you want to see the 
gracefullest and happiest caprices of which 
lust is capable, you must go to the Hartz ; 
ziot that I ever mean to go there myself, for 
I want to retain the romantic feeling about 
the name ; and I have done myself some 
harm already by seeing the monotonous and 
heavy form of the Brocken from the suburbs 
of Brunswick. But whether the mountains 
be picturesque or not, the tricks which the 
goblins (as I am told) teach the crystals in 
them, are incomparably pretty. They work 
chiefly on the mind of a docile, bluish- 
colored carbonate of lime; which comes 
out of a gray limestone. The goblins take 
the greatest possible care of its education, 
and see that nothing happens to it to hurt 
its temper ; and when it may be supposed 
to have arrived at the crisis which is to a 
well brought up mineral, what presentation 
at court is to a young lady — after which it 
is expected to set fashions — there's no end 
to its pretty ways of behaving. First it will 
^nake itself into pointed darts as fine as hoar- 
frost ; here, it is changed into a white fur as 
fine as silk ; here into little crowns and cir- 
clets, as bright as silver, as if for the gnome 
princesses to wear ; here it is in beautiful 
little plates, for them to eat off ; presently it 



Crystal Caprice* 167 

is in towers which they might be imprisoned 
in ; presently in caves and cells, where they 
may make nun-gnomes of themselves, and 
no gnome ever hear of them more ; here is 
some of it in sheaves, like corn ; here, some 
in drifts, like snow ; here, some in rays, like 
stars : and, though these are, all of them, 
necessarily, shapes that the mineral takes in 
other places, they are all taken here with 
such a grace that you recognize the high 
caste and breeding of the crystals wherever 
you meet them, and know at once they are 
Hartz-born. 

Of course, such fine things as these are 
only done by crystals which are perfectly 
good, and good-humored; and of course, 
also, there are ill-humored crystals who tor- 
ment each other, and annoy quieter crystals, 
yet without coming to anything like serious, 
war. Here (for once) is some ill-disposed 
quartz, tormenting a peaceable octahedron 
of fluor, in mere caprice. I looked at it the 
other night so long, and so wonderingly, 
just before putting my candle out, that I fell 
into another strange dream. But you don't 
care about dreams. 

Dora. No ; we didn't, yesterday ; but you 
know we are made up of caprice ; so we do, 
io-day : and you must tell it us directly. 

L. Well, you see, Neith and her work 
were still much in my mind ; and then, I 
had been looking over these Hartz things for 
you, and thinking of the sort of grotesque 



168 Zbc Etbfcs of tbe 2>ust* 

sympathy there seemed to be in them with 
the beautiful fringe and pinnacle work of 
Northern architecture. So, when I fell 
asleep,- 1 thought I saw Neith and St. Bar- 
bara talking together. 

Dora. But what had St. Barbara to do with 
it?* 

L. My dear, I am quite sure St. Barbara 
is the patroness of good architects ; not St 
Thomas, whatever the old builders thought. 
It might be very fine, according to the 
monks' notions, in St. Thomas, to give all 
his employer's money away to the poor : 
but breaches of contract are bad founda- 
tions ; and I believe, it was not he but St. 
Barbara, who overlooked the work in all the 
buildings you and I care about. However 
that may be, it was certainly she whom I 
saw in my dream with Neith. Neith was 
sitting weaving, and I thought she looked 
sad, and drew her shuttle slowly ; and St. 
Barbara was standing at her side, in a stiff 
little gown, all ins and outs, and angles ; 
but so bright with embroidery that it dazzled 
me whenever she moved ; the train of it was 
just like a heap of broken jewels, it was so 
stiff, and full of corners, and so many-colored, 
and bright. Her hair fell over her shoulders 
in long, delicate waves, from under a little 
three-pinnacled crown, like a tower. She 
was asking Neith about the laws of architect- 

* Note v. 



Crystal Caprice* 169 

ure in Egypt and Greece ; and when Neith 
told her the measures of the pyramids, St. 
Barbara said she thought they would have 
been better three-cornered : and when Neith 
told her the measures of the Parthenon, St 
Barbara said she thought it ought to have 
had two transepts. But she was pleased 
when Neith told her of the temple of the 
dew, and of the Caryan maidens bearing its 
frieze : and then she thought that perhaps 
Neith would like to hear what sort of temples 
she was building herself, in the French val- 
leys, and on the crags of the Rhine. So she 
began gossiping, just as one of you might 
to an old lady ; and certainly she talked in 
the sweetest way in the world to Neith ; and 
explained to her all about crockets and pin- 
nacles : and Neith sat, looking very grave ; 
and always graver as St. Barbara went on ; 
till at last, I'm sorry to say, St. Barbara lost 
her temper a little. 

May {very grave herself). "St. Barbara?" 

L. Yes, May. Why shouldn't she? It 
was very tiresome of Neith to sit looking 
like that. 

May. But, then, St. Barbara was a saint ! 

L. What's that, May ? 

May. A saint ! A saint is — I am sure you 
know ! 

L. If I did, it would not make me sure 
that you knew too, May : but I don't 

Violet {expressing the incredulity 0/ the 
audience). Oh, — sir I 



170 Cbe fitbics of tbc 5>u6t. 

L. That is to say, I know that people are 
called saints who are supposed to be better 
than others : but I don't know how much 
better they must be, in order to be saints ; nor 
how nearly anybody may be a saint, and yet 
not be quite one * nor whether everybody 
who is called a saint was one ; nor whether 
everybody who isn't called a saint, isn't one. 
{General silence • the audience feeling 
themselves on the verge of the Infinities, 
and a little shocked, and much puz- 
zled by so many questions at once. ) 

L. Besides, did you never hear that verse 
about being <c called to be saints "? 

May (repeals Rom, i. 7). 

L. Quite right, May, Well, then, who 
are called to be that ? People in Rome 
only ? 

May. Everybody, I suppose, whom God 
loves. 

L. What ! little girls as well as other 
people? 

May. All grown-up people, I mean. 

L. Why not little girls ? Are they wickeder 
when they are little ? 

May. Oh, I hope not. 

L. Why not little girls, then ? 
{Pause). 

Lily. Because, you know, we can't be 
worth anything if we're ever so good ; — I 
mean, if we try to be ever so good ; and we 
can't do difficult things — like saints. 

1» I am afraid, my dear, that old people 



Crystal Caprice* 171 

are not more able or willing* for their diffi- 
culties than you children are for yours. All 
I can say is, that if ever I see any of you, 
when you are seven or eight and twenty, 
knitting your brows over any work you 
want to do or to understand, as I saw you, 
Lily, knitting your brows over your slate 
this morning, I should think you very noble 
women. But — to come back to my dream 
—St. Barbara did lose her temper a little ; 
and I was not surprised. For you can't think 
how provoking Neith looked, sitting there 
just like a statue of sandstone ; only going 
on weaving, like a machine ; and never 
quickening the cast of her shuttle ; while St. 
Barbara was telling her so eagerly all about 
the most beautiful things, and chattering 
away, as fast as bells ring on Christmas 
Eve, till she saw that Neith didn't care ; and 
then St. Barbara got as red as a rose, and 
stopped, just in time; — or I think she would 
really have said something naughty. 

Isabel. Oh, please, but didn't Neith sajr 
anything then ? 

L. Yes. She said, quite quietly, " It may 
be very pretty, my love ; but it is all non- 
sense." 

Isabel. Oh dear, oh dear ; and then ? 

L. Well ; then I was a little angry myself, 
and hoped St. Barbara would be quite angry ; 
but she wasn't. She bit her lips first ; and 
then gave a great sigh — such a wild, sweet 
sigh — and then she knelt down and hid her 



ij2 Zbe jEtbice of tbe 2>ust/ 

face on Neith's knees. Then Neith smiled 
a little, and was moved. 

Isabel. Oh, I am so glad ! 

L. And she touched St. Barbara's forehead 
with a flower of white lotus ; and St. Bar- 
bara sobbed once or twice, and then said : 
"If you only could see how beautiful it is, 
and how much it makes people feel what is 
good and lovely ; and if you could only hear 
the children singing in the Lady chapels ! M 
And Neith smiled, — but still sadly, — and 
said, " How do you know what I have seen, 
or heard, my love ? Do you think all those 
vaults and towers of yours have been built 
without me? There was not a pillar in 
your Giotto's Santa Maria del Fiore which I 
did not set true by my spearshaft as it rose. 
But this pinnacle and flame work which has 
set your little heart on fire is all vanity ; 
and you will soon see what it will come to, 
and none will grieve for it more than I. 
And then every one will disbelieve your 
pretty symbols and types. Men must be 
spoken simply to, my dear, if you would 
guide them kindly, and long." But St. Bar- 
bara answered, that, "Indeed she thought 
every one liked her work, " and that "the 
people of different towns were as eager 
about their cathedral towers as about their 
privileges or their markets ; " and then she 
asked Neith to come and build something 
with her, wall against tower; and "see 
Whether the people will be as much pleased 



Crystal Caprice* 173 

with your building as with mine. " But Neith 
answered, "I will not contend with you, 
my dear. I strive not with those who love 
me, and for those who hate me, it is not 
well to strive with me, as weaver Arachne 
knows. And remember, child, that nothing 
is ever done beautifully, which is done in 
rivalship ; nor nobly, which is done in pride." 
Then St. Barbara hung her head quite 
down, and said she was very sorry she had 
been so foolish ; and kissed Neith ; and 
stood thinking a minute : and then her eyes 
got bright again, and she said, she would 
go directly and build a chapel with five 
windows in it ; four for the four cardinal 
virtues, and one for humility, in the middle, 
"bigger than the rest. And Neith very nearly 
laughed quite out, I thought ; certainly her 
beautiful lips lost all their sternness for an 
instant; then she said, "Well, love, build 
it, but do not put so many colors into your 
windows as you usually do ; else no one 
will be able to see to read, inside : and 
when it is built, let a poor village priest con- 
secrate it, and not an archbishop." St. 
Barbara started a little, I thought, and 
turned as if to say something ; but changed 
her mind, and gathered up her train, and 
went out. And Neith bent herself again to 
her loom, in which she was weaving a web 
of strange dark colors, I thought ; but per- 
haps it was only after the glittering of St. 
Barbara's embroidered train ; and I tried to 



i74 Cbe Etbfcs of tbe Dust* 

make out the figures in Neith's web, and 
confused myself among them, as one al- 
ways does in dreams ; and then the dream 
changed altogether, and I found myself, all 
at once, among a crowd of little Gothic and 
Egyptian spirits, who were quarreling ; at 
least the Gothic ones were trying to quarrel ; 
for the Egyptian ones only sat with their 
hands on their knees, and their aprons sticking 
out very stiffly; and stared. And after awhile 
I began to understand what the matter was. 
It seemed that some of the troublesome 
building imps, who meddle and make con- 
tinually, even in the best Gothic work, had 
been listening to St. Barbara's talk with 
Neith; and had made up their minds that 
Neith had no workpeople who could build 
against them. They were but dull imps, as 
you may fancy, by their thinking that ; and 
never had done much, except disturbing the 
great Gothic building angels at their work, 
and playing tricks to each other ; indeed, of 
late they had been living years and years, 
like bats, up under the cornices of Stras- 
bourg and Cologne cathedrals, with nothing 
to do but to make mouths at the people 
below. However, they thought they knew 
everything about tower building ; and those 
who had heard what Neith said, told the 
rest ; and they all flew down directly, chat- 
tering in German, like jackdaws, to show 
Neith's people what they could do. And 
tbey had found some of Neith's old work- 



Crystal Caprice* 175 

people somewhere near Sais, sitting in the 
sun, with their hands on their knees ; and 
abused them heartily : and Neith's people 
did not mind at first, but, after awhile, they 
seemed to get tired of the noise ; and one or 
two rose up slowly, and laid hold of their 
measuring rods, and said, "If St. Barbara's 
people liked to build with them, tower 
against pyramid, they would show them 
how to lay stones." Then the Gothic little 
spirits threw a great many double somer- 
saults for joy ; and put the tips of their 
tongues out slyly to each other, on one 
side ; and I heard the Egyptians say, ' ' they 
must be some new kind of frog — they didn't 
think there was much building in them" 
However, the stiff old workers took their 
rods, as I said, and measured out a square 
space of sand; but. as soon as the German 
spirits saw that, they declared they wanted 
exactly that bit of ground to build on them- 
selves. Then the Egyptian builders offered 
to go farther off, and the German ones said, 
" Ja wohl." But as soon as the Egyptians 
had measured out another square, the little 
Germans said they must have some of that 
too. Then Neith's people laughed ; and 
said, "they might take as much as they 
liked, but they would not move the plan of 
their pyramid again." Then the little Ger- 
mans took three pieces, and began to build 
three spires directly ; one large, and two 
little, And when the Egyptians saw they 



176 ttbe jBtbics of tbe Duet, 

had fairly begun, they laid their founda- 
tion all round, of large square stones : and 
began to build, so steadily that they had 
like to have swallowed uo the three little 
German spires. So when the Gothic spirits 
saw that, they built their spires leaning, like 
the tower of Pisa, that they might stick out 
at the side of the pyramid. And Neith's 
people stared at them ; and thought it very 
clever, but very wrong ; and on they went, 
in their own way, and said nothing. Then 
the little Gothic spirits were terribly pro- 
voked because they could not spoil the 
shape of the pyramid ; and they sat down 
all along the ledges of it to make faces ; 
but that did no good. Then they ran to 
the corners, and put their elbows on their 
knees, and stuck themselves out as far as 
they could, and made more faces ; but 
that did no good, neither. Then they 
looked up to the sky, and opened their 
mouths wide, and gobbled, and said it was 
too hot for work, and wondered when it 
would rain ; but that did no good, neither. 
And all the while the Egyptian spirits were 
laying step above step, patiently. But when 
the Gothic ones looked, and saw how high 
they had got, they said, "Ach, Himmel ! " 
and flew down in a great black cluster to 
the bottom ; and swept out a level spot in 
the sand with their wings, in no time, and 
began building a tower straight up, as fast 
as they could. And the Egyptians stood 



Crystal Caprice. 177 

still again to stare at them ; for tne Gothic 
spirits had got quite into a passion, and 
were really working very wonderfully. 
They cut the sandstone into strips as fine as 
reeds ; and put one reed on the top of 
another, so that you could not see where 
they fitted : and they twisted them in and 
out like basket work, and knotted them into 
likenesses of ugly faces, and of strange 
beasts biting each other ; and up they went, 
and up still, and they made spiral staircases 
at the corners, for the loaded workers to- 
come up by (for I saw they were but weak 
imps, and could not fly with stones on their 
backs), and then they made traceried gal- 
leries for them to run round by ; and so up 
again ; with finer and finer work, till the 
Egyptians wondered whether they meant 
the thing for a tower or a pillar : and I 
heard them saying to one another, "It was 
nearly as pretty as lotos stalks ; and if it 
were not for the ugly faces there would be a 
fine temple, if they were going to build it 
all with pillars as big as that ! " But in a 
minute afterwards, — just as the Gothic spirits 
had carried their work as high as the upper 
course, but three or four, of the pyramid — 
the Egyptians called out to them to " mind 
what they were about, for the sand was 
running away from under one of their tower 
corners." But it was too late to mind what 
they were about ; for, in another instant, the 
whole tower sloped aside ; and the Gothic 
12 



178 Cbe fitbtcs ot tbe Dust/ 

imps rose out of it like a flight of puffins, in 
a single cloud ; but screaming worse than 
any puffins you ever heard : and down came 
the tower, all in a piece, like a falling pop- 
lar, with its head right on the flank of the 
pyramid ; against which it snapped short 
off. And of course that waked me ! 

Mary. What a shame of you to have such 
a dream, after all you have told us about 
Gothic architecture ! 

L. If you have understood anything I 
ever told you about it, you know that no 
architecture was ever corrupted more miser- 
ably; or abolished more justly by the ac- 
complishment of its own follies. Besides, 
even in its days of power, it was subject to 
catastrophes of this kind. I have stood too 
often, mourning, by the grand fragment of 
the apse of Beauvais, not to have that fact 
well burnt into me. Still, you must have 
seen, surely, that these imps were of the 
Flamboyant school ; or, at least, of the 
German schools correspondent with it in 
extravagance. 

Mary. But, then, where is the crystal about 
which you dreamed all this ? 

L. Here; but I suppose little Pthah has 
touched it again, for it is very small. But, 
you see, here is the pyramid, built of great 
square stones of fluor spar, straight up ; 
and here are the three little pinnacles of 
mischievous quartz, which have set them- 
selves, at the same time, on the same foun- 



Crystal Caprice. 179 

dation ; only they lean like the tower of 
Pisa, and come out obliquely at the side ; 
and here is one great spire of quartz which 
seems as if it had been meant to stand 
straight up, a little way off ; and then had 
fallen down against the pyramid base, 
breaking its pinnacle away. In reality, it 
has crystallized horizontally, and terminated 
imperfectly : but then, by what caprice 
does one crystal form horizontally, when all 
the rest stand upright ? But this is nothing 
to the phantasies of fluor, and quartz, and 
some other such companions, when they 
get leave to do anything they like. I could 
show you fifty specimens, about every one 
of which you might fancy a new fairy tale. 
Not that, in truth, any crystals get leave to 
do quite what they like ; and many of them 
are sadly tried, and have little time for ca- 
prices — poor things ! 

Mary. I thought they always looked as if 
they were either in play or in mischief? 
What trials have they ? 

L. Trials much like our own. Sickness, 
and starvation ; fevers, and agues, and 
palsy ; oppression ; and old age, and the 
necessity of passing away in their time, like 
all else. If there's any pity in you, you 
must come to-morrow, and take some part 
in these crystal griefs. 

Dora. I am sure we shall cry till our eyes 
are red. 

L. Ah, you may laugh, Dora : but I've 



1S0 Cbc lEtbice of tbe Dust. 

been made grave, not once, nor twice, to 
see that even crystals " cannot choose but 
be old " at last It may be but a shallow 
proverb of the Justice's ; but is a shrewdly 
wise one. 

Dora {pensive for once). I suppose it & 
very dreadful to be old 1 But then {bright* 
ening again), what should we do witnout 
our dear old friends, and our nice old lect- 
ures? 

L. If all nice old lecturers were minded 
as little as one I know of— 

Dora. And if they all meant as little what 
they say, would they not deserve it ? But 
we'll come,— well come, and cry* 



LECTURE 9. 

CRYSTAL SORROWS. 



LECTURE IX. 

CRYSTAL SORROWS. 

' Working Lecture in Schoolroom* 

L. We have been hitherto talking, chil- 
dren, as if crystals might live, and play, 
and quarrel, and behave ill or well, accord- 
ing to their characters without interruption 
from anything else. But so far from this 
being so, nearly all crystals, whatever their 
characters, have to live a hard life of it, and 
meet with many misfortunes. It we could 
see far enough, we should find, indeed, that, 
at the root, all their vices were misfortunes ; 
but to-day I want you to see what sort of 
troubles the best crystals have to go through, 
occasionally, by no fault of their own. 

This black thing, which is one of the pret- 
tiest of the very few pretty black things in 
the world, is called " Tourmaline." It may 
be transparent, and green, or red, as well as 
black; and then no stone can be prettier 
(only, all the light that gets into it, I believe, 
comes out a good deal the worse ; and is 
not itself again for a long while). But this 
is the commonest state of it, — opaque, and 
as black as jet. 

183 



184 Gtoe JEtbice of tbe 2>ust. 

Mary. What does ' ' Tourmalin e" mean? 

L. They say it is Ceylanese, and I don't 
know Ceylanese ; but we may always be 
thankful for a graceful word, whatever it 
means. • 

Mary. And what is it made of? 

L. A little of everything* ; there's always 
flint, and clay, and magnesia in it ; and the 
black is iron, according to its fancy ; and 
there's boracic acid, if you know what that 
is ; and if you don't, I cannot tell you to- 
day ; and it doesn't signify : and there's pot* 
ash, and soda ; and, on the whole, the 
chemistry of it is more like a mediaeval doc- 
tor's prescription, than the making of a re- 
spectable mineral : but it may, perhaps, be 
owing to the strange complexity of its make, 
that it has a notable habit which makes it, to 
me, one of the most interesting of minerals. 
You see these two crystals are broken right 
across, in many places, just as if they had 
been shafts of black marble fallen from a 
ruinous temple ; and here they lie, imbedded 
in white quartz, fragment succeeding frag- 
ment, keeping the line of the original crystal, 
while the quartz fills up the intervening 
spaces. Now Tourmaline has a trick of do- 
ing this, more than any other mineral I 
know ; here is another bit which I picked up 
on the glacier of Macugnaga : it is broken, 
like a pillar built of very flat broad stones, 
into about thirty joints, and all these are 
Sheaved and warped away from each other 



Crystal Sorrows* 185 

sideways, almost into a line of steps ; and 
then all is filled up with quartz paste. And 
here, lastly, is a green Indian piece, in which 
the pillar is first disjointed, and then wrung 
round into the shape of an S. 

Mary. How can this have been done ? 

L. There are a thousand ways in which 
it may have been done ; the difficulty is not 
to account for the doing of it ; but for the 
showing of it in some crystals, and not in 
others. You never by any chance get a 
quartz crystal broken or twisted in this way. 
If it break or twist at all, which it does some- 
times, like the spire of Dijon, it is by its 
own will or fault ; it never seems to have 
been passively crushed. But, for the forces 
which cause this passive ruin of the tourma- 
line, — here is a stone which will show you 
multitudes of them in operation at once. 
It is known as "brecciated agate," beauti- 
ful, as you see ; and highly valued as a peb- 
ble : yet, so far as I can read or hear, no 
one has ever looked at it with the least at- 
tention. At the first glance, you see it is 
made of very fine red striped agates, which 
have been broken into small pieces, and 
fastened together again by paste, also of 
agate. There would be nothing wonderful 
in this, if this were all. It is well-known 
that by the movements of strata, portions of 
rock are often shattered to pieces : — well 
known also that agate is a deposit of flint 
by water under certain conditions of heat 



186 Cbe fitbics of tbe 2>ust* 

and pressure : there is, therefore, nothing 
wonderful in an agate's being broken ; and 
nothing wonderful in its being mended with 
the solution out of which it was itself orig- 
inally congealed. And with this explana- 
tion most people looking at a brecciated 
agate, or brecciated anything, seem to be 
satisfied. I was so myself, for twenty 
years ; but, lately happening to stay for 
some time at the Swiss Baden, where the 
beach of the Limmat is almost wholly com- 
posed of brecciated limestones, I began to 
examine them thoughtfully ; and perceived, 
in the end, that they were, one and all, 
knots of as rich mystery as any poor little 
human brain was ever lost in. That piece 
of agate in your hand, Mary, will show 
you many of the common phenomena of 
breccias ; but you need not knit your brows 
over it in that way ; depend upon it, neither 
you nor I shall ever know anything about 
the way it was made, as long as we live. 

Dora. That does not seem much to 
depend upon. 

L. Pardon me, puss. When once we 
gain some real notion of the extent and un- 
conquerableness of our ignorance, it is a 
very broad and restful thing to depend upon : 
you can throw yourself upon it at ease, as 
on a cloud to feast with the gods. You do 
not thenceforward trouble yourself, — nor 
any one else, — with theories, or the contra- 
diction of theories ; you neither get head- 



Crystal Sorrows. 167 

ftche nor heart-burning ; and you never more 
waste your poor little store of strength or 
allowance of time. 

However, there are certain facts, about 
this gate-making, which I can tell you ; 
and then you may look at it in r. pleasant 
wonder as long as you like ; pleasant won- 
der is no loss of time. 

First, then, it is not broken freely by a 
blow; it is slowly wrung, or ground, to 
pieces. You can only with extreme dim- 
ness conceive the force exerted on mount- 
ains in transitional states of movement 
You have all read a little geology ; and you 
know how coolly geologists talk of mount- 
ains being raised or depressed. They talk 
coolly of it, because they are accustomed to 
the fact ; but the very universality of the 
fact prevents us from ever conceiving dis- 
tinctly the conditions of force involved. You 
know I was living last year in Savoy ; my 
house was on the back of a sloping mount- 
ain, which rose gradually for two miles 
behind it ; and then fell at once in a great 
precipice toward Geneva, going down three 
thousand feet in four or five cliffs, or steps. 
Now that whole group of cliffs had simply 
been torn away by sheer strength from the 
rocks below, as if the whole mass had been 
as soft as biscuit. Put four or five captains'" 
biscuits on the floor, on the top of one 
another ; and try to break them all in half, 
pot by bending, but by holding one half 



i8S *H>e JEtbtcs of tbc 5>ust, 

down, and tearing* the other halves straight 
tip ; — of course you will not be able to do it, 
but you will feel and comprehend the sort 
of force needed. Then, fancy each captains' 
biscuit a bed of rock, six or seven hundred 
feet thick ; and the whole mass torn straight 
through ; and one half heaved up three 
thousand feet, grinding against the other as 
it rose, — and you will have some idea of the 
making of the Mont Saleve. 

May. But it must crush the rocks all to 
dust. 

L. No ; for there is no room for dust 
The pressure is too great ; probably the heat 
developed also so great that the rock is made 
partly ductile; but the worst of it is, that 
■we never can see these parts of mountains 
in the state they were left in at the time of 
their elevation ; for it is precisely in these 
rents and dislocations that the crystalline 
power principally exerts itself. It is essen- 
tially a styptic power, and wherever the earth 
is torn, it heals and binds ; nay, the torture 
and grieving of the earth seem necessary to 
bring out its full energy ; for you only find 
the crystalline living powerfully in action, 
where the rents and faults are deep and 
many. 

Dora. If you please, sir,— would you tell 
us — what are " faults " ? 

L. You never heard of such things ? 

Dora. Never in all our lives. 

I* When a vein of rock, which is going on 



Crystal Sorrows. 189 

smoothly, is interrupted by another trouble- 
some little vein, which stops it, and puts it 
out so that it has to begin again in another 
place — that is called a fault / always think 
it ought to be called the fault of the veia 
that interrupts it ; but the miners always call 
it the fault of the vein that is interrupted 

Dora. So it is, if it does not begin again, 
where it left off. 

L. Well, that is certainly the gist of the 
business : but, whatever good-natured old 
lecturers may do, the rocks have a bad habit, 
when they are once interrupted, of never 
asking " Where was I ? " 

Dora. When the two halves of the dining 
table came separate, yesterday, was that a 
"fault"? 

L. Yes; but not the table's. However, 
it is not a bad illustration, Dora. Whea 
btds of rock are only interrupted by a fissure, 
but remain at the same level, like the twa 
halves of the table, it is not called a fault, 
but only a fissure ; but if one half of the 
table be either tilted higher than the other, 
or pushed to the side, so that the two parts 
will not fit, it is a fault. You had better 
read the chapter on faults in Jukes's Geology ; 
then you will know all about it. And this 
rent that I am telling you of in the Saleve, 
is one only of myriads, to which are owing 
the forms of the Alps, as, I believe, of alt 
great mountain chains. Wherever you see 
a precipice on any scale of real magnifr 



190 



Zbc JStbic* of tbe Bust* 



cence, you will nearly always find it owing 
to some dislocation of this kind ; but the 
point of chief wonder to me is, the delicacy 
of the touch by which these gigantic rents 
have been apparently accomplished. Note, 
however, that we have no clear evidence, 
hitherto, of the time taken to produce any 
of them. We know that a change of tem- 
perature alters the position and the angles 
of the atoms of crystals, and also the entire 
bulk of rocks. We know that in all volcanic, 
and the greater part of all subterranean, 
action, temperatures are continually chang- 
ing, and therefore masses of rock must be 
expanding or contracting, with infinite slow- 
ness, but with infinite force. This pressure 
must result in mechanical strain somewhere, 
both in their own substance, and in that of 
the rocks surrounding them ; and we can 
form no conception of the result of irresist- 
ible pressure, applied so as to rend and 
raise, with imperceptible slowness of grada- 
tion, masses thousands of feet in thickness. 
We want some experiments tried on masses 
of iron and stone ; and we can't get them 
tried, because Christian creatures never will 
seriously and sufficiently spend money, ex- 
cept to find out the shortest way of killing 
each other. But, besides this slow kind of 
pressure, there is evidence of more or less 
sudden violence, on the same terrific scale ; 
and, through it all, the wonder, as I said, is 
always to me the delicacy of touch. I cut 



Crystal Sorrows. 191 

a block of the Saleve limestone from the edge 
of one of the principal faults which have 
formed the precipice ; it is a lovely compact 
limestone, and the fault itself is filled up with 
a red breccia, formed of the crushed frag- 
ments of the torn rock, cemented by a rich 
red crystalline paste. I have had the piece 
X cut from it smoothed, and polished across 
the junction ; here it is ; and you may now 
pass your soft little fingers over the surface, 
without so much as feeling the place where 
a rock which all the hills of England might 
have been sunk in the body of, and not a 
summit seen, was torn asunder through that 
whole thickness, as a thin dress is torn when 
you tread upon it 

{The audience examine the stone y and 
touch it timidly, but the matter remains 
inconceivable to them. ) 

Mary (struck by the beauty 0/ the stone). 
But this is almost marble ? 

L. It is quite marble. And another sin- 
gular point in the business, to my mind, is 
that these stones, which men have been cut- 
ting into slabs, for thousands of years, to 
ornament their principal buildings with,- — 
and which, under the general name of" mar- 
ble/' have been the delight of the eyes, and 
the wealth of architecture, among all civil- 
ized nations, — are precisely those on which 
the signs and brands of these earth agonies 
have been chiefly struck ; and there is not a 
purple vein nor flaming zone in them, which 



192 ; Zbc JBtbice of tbe ©ust* 

is not the record of their ancient torture, 
What a boundless capacity for sleep, and for 
serene stupidity, there is in the human mind I 
Fancy reflective beings, who cut and polish 
stones for three thousand years, for the sake 
•of the pretty stains upon them ; and edu- 
cate themselves to an art at last (such as it 
is), of imitating- these veins by dexterous 
painting ; and never a curious soul of them, 
all that while, asks, "What painted the 
rocks?" 

{The audience look dejected, and ashamed 
of themselves.} 

The fact is, we are all, and always, asleep, 
through our lives ; and it is only by pinch- 
ing ourselves very hard that we ever come to 
see, or understand, anything. At least, it is 
not always we who pinch ourselves ; some- 
times other people pinch us ; which I sup 
pose is very good of them, — or other things, 
which I suppose is very proper of them. 
But it is a sad life ; made up chiefly of naps 
and pinches. 

{Some of the audience, on this, appearing 
to think that the others require pinch* 
ing, the Lecturer changes the subject. ) 

Now, however, for once, look at a piece 
of marble carefully, and think about it 
You see this is one side of the fault ; the 
other side is down or up, nobody knows 
where : but, on this side, you can trace the 
evidence of the dragging and tearing action. 
All along the edge of this marble, the ends 



Crystal Sorrows* 193 

of the fibers of the rock are torn, here an inch, 
and there half an inch, away from each 
other ; and you see the exact places where 
they fitted, before they were torn separate : 
and you see the rents are now all filled up 
with the sanguine paste, full of the broken 
pieces of the rock ; the paste itself seems to 
have been half melted, and partly to have 
also melted the edge of the fragments it con- 
tains, and then to have crystallized with 
them, and round them. And the brecciated 
agate I first showed you contains exactly the 
same phenomena ; a zoned crystallization 
going on amidst the cemented fragments, 
partly altering the structure of those frag- 
ments themselves, and subject to continual 
change, either in the intensity of its own 
power, or in the nature of the materials sub- 
mitted to it ; — so that, at one time, gravity 
acts upon them, and disposes them in hori- 
zontal layers, or causes them to droop in 
stalactites ; and at another, gravity is en- 
tirely defied, and the substances in solution 
are crystallized in bands of equal thickness 
on every side of the cell. It would require a 
course of lectures longer than these (I have 
a great mind — you have behaved so saucily 
— to stay and give them) to describe to you 
the phenomena of this kind, in agates and 
chalcedonies only ; — nay, there is a single 
sarcophagus in the British Museum, covered 
with grand sculpture of the 18th dynasty, 
which contains in magnificent breccia 
*3 



194 ^* e Btbfcs of tbe Dust* 

(agates and jaspers imbedded in porphyry), 
out of which it is hewn, material for the 
thought of years ; and recorded of the earth* 
sorrow of ages in comparison with the dura- 
tion of which, the Egyptian letters tell us 
but the history of the evening and morning 
of a day. 

Agates, I think, of all stones, confess 
most of their past history ; but all crystalli- 
zation goes on under, and partly records cir- 
cumstances of this kind — circumstances of 
infinite variety, but always involving diffi- 
culty, interruption, and change of condition 
at different times. Observe, first, you have 
the whole mass of the rock in motion, either 
contracting itself, and so gradually widen- 
ing the cracks ; or being compressed, and 
thereby closing them, and crushing their 
edges ; — and, if one part of its substance 
be softer, at the given temperature, than 
another, probably squeezing that softer 
substance out into the veins. Then the 
veins themselves, when the rock leaves 
them open by its contraction, act with 
various power of suction upon its sub- 
stance ; — by capillary attraction when they 
are fine, — by that of pure vacuity when 
they are larger, or by changes in the con- 
stitution and condensation of the mixed 
gases with which they have been originally 
rilled. Those gases themselves may be sup- 
plied in all variation of volume and power 
from below ; or, slowly, by the decomposi* 



Crystal Sorrows* 195 

Hon of the rocks themselves ; and, at chang- 
ing temperatures, must exert relatively 
changing forces of decomposition and com- 
bination on the walls of the veins they fill ; 
while water, at every degree of heat and 
pressure (from beds of everlasting ice, alter- 
nate with cliffs of native rock, to volumes of 
red hot, or white hot steam), congeals, and 
drips, and throbs, and thrills, from crag to 
crag ; and breathes from pulse to pulse of 
foaming or fiery arteries, whose beating is felt 
through chains of the great islands of the In- 
dian seas, as your own pulses lift your brace- 
lets, and makes whole kingdoms of the world 
quiver in deadly earthquake, as if they were 
light as aspen leaves. And, remember, the 
poor little crystals have to live their liyes, 
and mind their own affairs, in the midsf of 
all this, as best they may. They are won- 
derfully like human creatures, — forget all 
that is going on if they don't see it, how- 
ever dreadful ; and never think what is to 
happen to-morrow. They are spiteful or 
loving, and indolent or painstaking, and 
orderly or licentious, with no thought what- 
ever of the lava or the flood which may 
break over them any day ; and evaporate 
them into air-bubbles, or wash them into a 
solution of salts. And you may look at 
them, once understanding the surrounding 
conditions of their fate, with an endless in- 
terest. You will see crowds of unfortunate 
little crystals, who have been forced to con- 



196 ttbe Btbfcs of tbe Dust 

stitute themselves in a hurry, their dissolving 
element being fiercely scorched away ; you 
will see them doing their best, bright and 
numberless, but tiny. Then you will find 
indulged crystals, who have had centuries to 
form themselves in, and have changed their 
mind and ways continually; and have been 
tired, and taken heart again ; and have been 
sick, and got well again ; and thought they 
would try a different diet, and then thought 
better of it ; and made but a poor use of their 
advantages, after all. And others you will 
see, who have begun life as wicked crystals ; 
and then have been impressed by alarming 
circumstances, and have become converted 
crystals, and behaved amazingly for a little 
while, and fallen away again, and ended, 
but discreditably, perhaps even in decompo- 
sition ; so that one doesn't know what will 
become of them. And sometimes you will 
see deceitful crystals, that look as soft as vel- 
vet, and are deadly to all near them; and 
sometimes you will see deceitful crystals, that 
seem flint-edged, like our little quartz-crystal 
of a housekeeper here (hush ! Dora), and are 
endlessly gentle and true wherever gentle- 
ness and truth are needed. And sometimes 
you will see little child-crystals put to school 
like school-girls, and made to stand in rows ; 
and taken the greatest care of, and taught 
how to hold themselves up, and behave : and 
sometimes you will see unhappy little child- 
crystals left to lie about in the dirt, and pick 



Crystal Sorrows* 197 

up their living", and learn manners where they 
can. And sometimes you will see fat crys- 
tals eating up thin ones, like great capitalists 
and little laborers ; and politico-economic 
crystals teaching the stupid ones how to eat 
each other, and cheat each other ; and fool- 
ish crystals getting in the way of wise ones ; 
and impatient crystals spoiling the plans of 
patient ones, irreparably ; just as things go 
on in the world. And sometimes you may 
see hypocritical crystals taking the shape of 
others, though they are nothing- like in their 
minds ; and vampire crystals eating out the 
hearts of others ; and hermit-crab crystals 
living in the shells of others; and parasite 
crystals living* on the means of others ; and 
courtier crystals glittering in attendance upon 
others ; and all these, besides the two great 
companies of war and peace, who ally them- 
selves, resolutely to attack, or resolutely to 
defend. And for the close, you see the 
broad shadow and deadly force of inevitable 
fate, above all this : you see the multitudes 
of crystals whose time has come ; not a set 
time, as with us, but yet a time, sooner or 
later, when they all must give up their crys- 
tal ghosts : — when the strength by which 
they grew and the breath given them to 
breathe, pass away from them ; and they fail, 
and are consumed, and vanish away ; and 
another generation is brought to life, framed 
out of their ashes. 

Mary. It is very terrible. Is it not the 



198 Gbe iBtbice of tbe 2>u5t. 

complete fulfillment, down into the very 
dust, of that verse: "The whole creation 
groaneth and travaileth in pain "? 

L. I do not know that it is in pain, Mary : 
at least, the evidence tends to show that 
there is much more pleasure than pain, as 
soon as sensation becomes possible. 

Lucilla. But then, surely, if we are told 
that it is pain, it must be pain ? 

L. Yes ; if we are told ; and told in the 
way you mean, Lucilla ; but nothing is said 
of the proportion to pleasure. Unmitigated 
pain would kill any of us in a few hours : 
pain equal to our pleasures would make us 
loathe life ; the word itself cannot be applied 
to the lower conditions of matter in its or- 
dinary sense. But wait till to-morrow to 
ask me about this. To-morrow is to be kept 
for questions and difficulties ; let us keep to 
the plain facts to-day. There is yet one 
group of facts connected with this rending 
of the rocks, which I especially want you 
to notice. You know, when you have 
mended a very old dress, quite meritoriously, 
till it won't mend any more 

Egypt {interrupting). Could not you some- 
times take gentlemen's work to illustrate by ? 

L. Gentlemen's work is rarely so useful 
as yours, Egypt ; and when it is useful, 
girls cannot easily understand it 

Dora. I am sure we should understand it 
better than gentlemen understand about 
sewing. 



Crystal Sorrows* 199 

L. My dear. I hope I always speak 
modestly, and under correction, when I 
touch upon matters of the kind too high for 
me • and besides, I never intend to speak 
otherwise than respectfully of sewing; — 
though you always seem to think I am 
laughing at you. In all seriousness, illus- 
trations from sewing are those which Neith 
likes me best to use ; and which young 
ladies ought to like everybody to use. 
What do you think the beautiful word 
" wife " comes from? 

Dora {tossing her head). I don't think it 
is a particularly beautiful word. 

L. Perhaps not. At your ages you may 
think " bride " sounds better ; but wife's the 
word for wear, depend upon it. It is tha 
great word in which the English and Latin 
languages conquer the French and the Greek. 
I hope the French will some day get a word 
for it, yet, instead of their dreadful "femme.* 
But what do you think it comes from ? 

Dora. I never did think about it. 

L. Nor you, Sibyl'? 

Sibyl. No ; I thought it was Saxon, aivi 
stopped there. 

L. Yes ; but the great good of Saxon 
words is, that they usually do mean some- 
thing. Wife means ' ' weaver. " You have 
all the right to call yourselves little " house- 
wives," when you sew neatly. 

Dora. But I don't think we want to call 
ourselves " little housewives." 



200 Sbe iCtbfcs ot tbe Dust* 

I* You must either be house-Wives, of 
house-Moths ; remember that. In the deep 
sense, you must either weave men's fort- 
unes, and embroider them ; or feed upon, 
and bring them to decay. You had better 
let me keep my sewing illustration, and 
help me out with it. 

Dora. Well, well hear it, under protest. 

L. You have heard it before ; but with 
reference to other matters. When it is said, 
" No man putteth a piece of new cloth on 
an old garment, else it taketh from the old/' 
does it not mean that the new piece tears 
the old one away at the sewn edge ? 

Dora. Yes ; certainly. 

L. And when you mend a decayed stuff 
with strong thread, does not the whole 
edge come away sometimes, when it tears 
again ? 

Dora. Yes ; and then it is of no use to 
mend it any more. 

L. Well, the rocks don't seem to think 
that : but the same thing happens to them 
continually. I told you they were full of 
rents, or veins. Large masses of mountain 
are sometimes as full of veins as your hand 
is ; and of veins nearly as fine (only you 
know a rock vein does not mean a tube, but 
a crack or cleft). Now these clefts are 
mended, usually, with the strongest mate- 
rial the rock can find ; and often literally 
with threads ; for the gradually opening rent 
seems to draw the substance it is filled with 



Crystal Sorrows, 201 

into fibers, which cross from one side of it 
to the other, and are partly crystalline ; so 
that when the crystals become distinct, the 
fissure has often exactly the look of a tear, 
brought together with strong cross stitches. 
Now when this is completely done, and all 
has been fastened and made firm, perhaps 
some new change of temperature may occur 
and the rock begin to contract again. Then 
the old vein must open wider ; or else 
another open elsewhere. If the old vein 
widen, it may do so at its center; but it 
constantly happens, with well filled veins, 
that the cross stitches are too strong to 
break ; the walls of the vein, instead, are 
torn away by them : and another little sup- 
plementary vein — often three or four suc- 
cessively — will be thus formed at the side of 
the first. 

Mary. That is really very much like our 
work. But what do the mountains use to 
sew with? 

L. Quartz, whenever they can get it : pure 
limestones are obliged to be content with 
carbonate of lime ; but most mixed rocks 
can find some quartz for themselves. Here 
is a piece of black slate from the Buet : it looks 
merely like dry dark mud ; you could not 
think there was any quartz in it ; but, you 
see, its rents are all stitched together with 
beautiful white thread, which is the purest 
quartz, so close drawn that you can break it 
like flint, in the mass ; but, where it has beea 



202 Cbe jEtbfcs of tbe Bust. 

exposed to the weather, the fine fibrous stmcv 
ture is shown : and, more than that, you see 
the threads have been all twisted and pulled 
aside, this way and the other, by the warp- 
ings and shifting of the sides of the vein as 
it widened. 

Mary. It is wonderful ! But is that going 
on still ? Are the mountains being torn and 
sewn together again at this moment ? 

L. Yes, certainly, my dear : but I think, 
just as certainly (though geologists differ 
on this matter), not with the violence, or 
on the scale, of their ancient ruin and re- 
newal. 

All things seem to be tending towards a 
condition of at least temporary rest ; and 
that groaning and travailing of the creation, 
as, assuredly, not wholly in pain, is not, in 
the full sense, " until now." 

Mary. I want so much to ask you about 
that ! 

Sibyl. Yes ; and we all want to ask you 
about a great many other things besides. 

L. It seems to me that you have got quite 
as many new ideas as are good for any of 
you at present : and I should not like to 
burden you with more ; but I must see that 
those you have are clear, if I can make them 
so ; so we will have one more talk, for answer 
of questions, mainly. Think over all the 
ground, and make your difficulties thoroughly 
presentable. Then we'll see what we can 
make of them. 



Crystal Sorrows* 203 

Dora. They shall all be dresed in their 
very best ; and curtsey as they come in. 

L. No, no, Dora ; no curtseys, if you 
please. I had enough of them the day you 
all took a fit of reverence, and curtsied me 
out of the room. 

Dora. But, you know, we cured ourselves 
of the fault, at once, by that fit. We have 
never been the least respectful since. And 
the difficulties will only curtsey themselves 
out of the room, I hope ; — come in at one 
door — vanish at the other. 

L. What a pleasant world it would be, if 
all its difficulties were taught to behave so ! 
However, one can generally made some- 
thing, or (better still) nothing, or at least 
less, of them, if they thoroughly know their 
own minds ; and your difficulties — I must 
say that for you, children, — generally do 
know their own minds, as you do your- 
selves. 

Dora. That is very kindly said for us. 
Some people would not allow so much as 
that girls had any minds to know. 

L. They will at least admit that you have 
minds to change, Dora. 

Mary. You might have left us the last 
speech, without a retouch. But we'll put 
our little minds, such as they are, in the best 
trim we can, for to-morrow. 



LECTURE 10. 

THE CRYSTAL REST. 



LECTURE X. 

THE CRYSTAL REST % 

Evening. The fireside. LA arm-chair in the 
comfortable corner. 

L. (perceiving various arrangements being 
made of footstool, cushion, screen, and the 
like). Yes, yes, it's all very fine ! and I am 
to sit here to be asked questions till supper- 
time, am I ? 

Dora. I don't think you can have any 
supper to-night : — we've got so much to 
ask. 

Lily. Oh, Miss Dora ! We can fetch it 
him here, you know, so nicely ! 

L. Yes, Lily, that will be pleasant, with 
competitive examination going on over one's 
plate : the competition being among the 
examiners. Really, now that I know what 
teasing things girls are, I don't so much 
wonder that people usee} to put up patiently 
with the dragons who took them for supper. 
But I can't help myself, I suppose ; — no 
thanks to St. George. Ask away, children, 
and I'll answer as civilly as may be. 

Dora. We don't so much care about being 
answered civilly, as about not being asked 
things back again. 

207 



208 Zbc JEtbics of tbe Dust* 

L. " Ayez seulement la patience que je le 
parle." There shall be no requitals. 

Dora. Well, then, first of all— What shall 
we ask first, Mary ? 

Mary. It does not matter. I think all the 
questions come into one, at last, nearly. 

Dora. You know, you always talk as if 
the crystals were alive ; and we never under- 
stand how much you are in play, and how 
much in earnest. That's the first thing. 

L. Neither do I understand, myself, my 
dear, how much I am in earnest. The stones 
puzzle me as much as I puzzle you. They 
look as if they were alive, and make me 
speak as if they were ; and I do not in the 
least know how much truth there is in the 
appearance. I'm* not to ask things back 
again to-night, but all questions of this sort 
lead necessarily to the one main question, 
which we asked, before, in vain, "What is 
it to be alive ? " 

Dora. Yes ; but we want to come back to 
that : for weVe been reading scientific books 
about the "conservation of forces," and it 
seems all so grand, and wonderful ; and the 
experiments are so pretty ; and I suppose it 
must be all right : but then the books never 
speak as if there were any such thing as 
"life." 

L. They mostly omit that part of the sub- 
ject, certainly, Dora ; but they are beautifully 
right as far as they go ; and life is not a con- 
venient element to deal with. They seem 



Cbc Crystal IRcbU 209 

to have been getting some of it into and out 
of bottles, in their '■' ozone " and " antizone" 
lately ; but they still know little of it : and, 
certainly, I know less. 

Dora. You promised not to be provoking, 
to-night. 

L. Wait a minute. Though, quite truly, 
I know less of the secrets of life than the 
philosophers do ; I yet know one corner of 
ground on which we artists can stand, liter- 
ally as ' ' Life Guards " at bay, as steadily as 
the Guards at Inkermann ; however hard the 
philosophers push. And you may stand 
with us, if once you learn to draw nicely. 

Dora. I'm sure we are all trying ! but tell 
us where we may stand. 

L. You may always stand by Form, 
against Force. To a painter, the essential 
character of anything is the form of it, and 
the philosophers cannot touch that They 
come and tell you, for instance, that there 
is as much heat, or motion, or calorific 
energy (or whatever else they like to call it), 
in a tea-kettle as in a Gier-eagle. Very 
good ; that is so ; and it is very interesting. 
It requires just as much heat as will boil the 
kettle, to take the Gier-eagle up to his nest ; 
and as much more to bring him down again 
on a hare or a partridge. But we painters, 
acknowledging the equality and similarity 
of the kettle and the bird in all scientific 
respects, attach, for our part, our principal 
interest to the difference in their forms. For 



210 Gbe fitbfcs of tbe 2>ust 

us, the primarily cognizable facts, in the two 
things, are, that the kettle has a spout, and 
the eagle a beak ; the one a lid on its back, 
the other a pair of wings ; — not to speak of 
the distinction also of volition, which the 
philosophers may properly call merely a 
form, or mode of force ; — but then, to an 
artist, the form, or mode, is the gist of the 
business. The kettle chooses to sit still on 
the hob ; the eagle to recline on the air. It 
is the fact of the choice, not the equal degree 
of temperature in the fulfillment of it, which 
appears to us the more interesting circum- 
stance ; — though the other is very interesting 
too. Exceedingly so ! Don't laugh, chil- 
dren ; the philosophers have been doing 
quite splendid work lately, in their own 
way : especially, the transformation of force 
into light is a great piece of systematized 
discovery ; and this notion about the sun's 
being supplied with his flame by ceaseless 
meteoric hail is grand, and looks very likely 
to be true. Of course, it is only the old gun- 
lock, — flint and steel, — on a large scale; 
but the order and majesty of it are sublime. 
Still, we sculptors and painters care littla 
about it. "It is very fine," we say, "and 
very useful, this knocking the light out of 
the sun, or into it, by an eternal cataract of 
planets. But you may hail away, so, for- 
ever, and you will not knock out what we 
can. Here is a bit of silver, not the size of 
half-a-crown, on which, with a single ham- 



Zbe Crystal "Rest. 211 

mer stroke, one of us, two thousand and odd 
years ago, hit out the head of the Apollo of 
Clazomenae. It is merely a matter of form ; 
but if any of you philosophers, with your 
whole planetary system to hammer with, 
can hit out such another bit of silver as this, 
— we will take off our hats to you. For the 
present, we keep them on. " 

Mary. Yes, I understand ; and that is 
nice ; but I don't think we shall any of us 
like having only form to depend upon. 

L. It was not neglected in the making 
of Eve, my dear. 

Mary. It does not seem to separate us 
from the dust of the ground. It is that 
breathing of the life which we want to un- 
derstand. 

L. So you should : but hold fast to the 
form, and defend that first, as distinguished 
from the mere transition of forces. Discern 
the molding hand of the potter command- 
ing the clay, from his merely beating foot, 
as it turns the wheel. If you can find in- 
cense, in the vase, afterw r ards, — well : but 
it is curious how far mere form will carry 
you ahead of the philosophers. For in- 
stance, with regard to the most interesting 
of all their modes of force — light ; — they 
never consider how far the existence of it 
depends on the putting of certain vitreous 
and nervous substances into the formal ar- 
rangement which we call an eye, The Ger- 
man philosophers began the attack, long 



2i2 Gbe Btbfcs of tbe Itasfc 

ago, on the other side, by telling us, there 
was no such thing as light at all, unless we 
chose to see it : now, German and English, 
both, have reversed their engines, and in- 
sist that light would be exactly the same 
light that it is, though nobody could eve 
see it. The fact being that the force mus\ 
be there, and the eyes there; and " light " 
means the effect of the one on the other ; — 
and perhaps, also — {Plato saw farther into 
that mystery than any one has since, that 
I know of), — on something a little way 
within the eyes ; but we may stand quite 
safe, close behind the retina, and defy the 
philosophers. 

Sibyl, But I don't care so much about 
defying the philosophers, if only one could 
get a clear idea of life, or soul, for one's self. 

L. Well, Sibyl, you used to know more 
about it in that cave of yours, than any of 
us. I was just going to ask you about in- 
spiration, and the golden bough, and the 
like : only I remembered I was not to ask 
anything. But, will not you, at least, tell 
us whether the ideas of Life, as the power 
of putting things together, or "making" 
them ; and of Death, as the power of push- 
ing things separate, or " unmaking " them, 
may not be very simply held in balance 
against each other ? 

Sibyl. No, I am not in my cave to-night ; 
and cannot tell you anything. 

L. I think they may. Modern Philosophy 



Zbc Crystal IRest. 213 

is a great separator ; it is little more than 
the expansion of Moliere's great sentence, 
"II s'ensuit de Ik, que tout ce qu'il y a de 
beau est dans les dictionnaires ; il n'y* a que 
les mots qui sont transposes/' But when 
you used to be in your cave, Sibyl, and to 
be inspired, there was (and there remains 
still in some small measure), beyond the 
merely formative and sustaining power, 
another, which we painters call "passion" 
— I don't know what the philosophers call 
it ; we know it makes people red, or white ; 
and therefore it must be something, itself; 
and perhaps it is the most truly "poetic" or 
"making" force of all, creating a world of 
its own out of a glance, or a sigh : and the 
want of passion is perhaps the truest death, 
or ' ' unmaking " of everything ; — even of 
stones. By the way, you were all reading 
about that ascent of the Aiguille Verte, the 
other day ? 

Sibyl. Because you had told us it was so 
difficult, you thought it could not be as- 
cended. 

L. Yes ; I believed the Aiguille Verte 
would have held its own. But do you rec- 
ollect what one of the climbers exclaimed, 
when he first felt sure of reaching the sum- 
mit ? 

Sibyl. Yes, it was, "Oh, Aiguille Verte, 
vous etes morte, vous etes morte ! " 

L. That was true instinct. Real philo- 
sophic joy. Now can you at all fancy the 



214 Gbe Btbics of tbe Bust. 

difference between that feeling of triumph 
in a mountain's death ; and the exultation 
of your beloved poet, in its life — 

11 Quantus Athos, aut quantus Eryx, aut ipse coruseis 
Quum fremit ilicibus quantus, gaudetque nivali 
Vertice, se attollens pater Apenninus ad auras.' * 

Dora. You must translate for us mere 
housekeepers, please — whatever the cave- 
keepers may know about it. 

Mary. Will Dry den do? 

L. No. Dryden is a far way worse than 
nothing, and nobody will "do." You can't 
translate it. But this is all you need know, 
that the lines are full of a passionate sense 
of the Apennines' fatherhood, or protecting 
power over Italy ; and of sympathy with 
their joy in their snowy strength in heaven ; 
and with the same joy, shuddering through 
all the leaves of their forests. 

Mary. Yes, that is a difference indeed ! 
but then, you know, one can't help feeling 
that it is fanciful. It is very delightful to 
imagine the mountains to be alive ; but 
then, — are they alive? 

L. It seems to me, on the whole, Mary, 
that the feelings of the purest and most 
mightily passioned human souls are likely 
to be the truest. Not, indeed, if they do 
not desire to know the truth, or blind them- 
selves to it that they may please themselves 
With passion ; for then they are no longef 



Cbe Crystal IRcbU 215 

pure ! but if, continually seeking and accept- 
ing the truth as far as it is discernible, they 
trust their Maker for the integrity of the in- 
stincts He has gifted them with, and rest in 
the sense of a higher truth which they can- 
not demonstrate, I think they will be most 
in the right, so. 

Dora and Jessie (clapping their hands). 
Then we really may believe that the mount- 
ains are living ? 

L. You may at least earnestly believe 
that the presence of the spirit which culmi- 
nates in your own life, shows itself in dawn- 
ing, wherever the dust of the earth begins 
to assume any orderly and lovely state. 
You will find it impossible to separate this 
idea of graduated manifestation from that of 
the vital power. Things are not either 
wholly alive, or wholly dead. They are less 
or more alive. Take the nearest, most easily 
examined instance — the life of a flower. 
Notice what a different degree and kind of 
life there is in the calyx and the corolla. 
The calyx is nothing but the swaddling 
clothes of the flower ; the child-blossom is 
bound up in it, hand and foot ; guarded in 
it, restrained by it, till the time of birth. 
The shell is hardly more subordinate to the 
germ in the egg, than the calyx to the blos- 
som. It bursts at last ; but it never lives 
as the corolla does. It may fall at the mo- 
ment its task is fulfilled, as in the poppy ; 
or whether gradually, as in the buttercup; 



216 Zbc Btbfcs of tbc Dust* 

or persist in a ligneous apathy, after the 
flower is dead, as in the rose ; or harmonize 
itself so as to share in the aspect of the real 
flower, as in the lily ; but it never shares in 
the corolla's bright passion of life. And the 
gradations which thus exist between the 
different members of organic creatures, exist 
no less between the different ranges of or- 
ganism. We know no higher or more en- 
ergetic life than our own ; but there seems 
to me this great good in the idea of grada- 
tion of life — it admits the idea of a life above 
us, in other creatures, as much nobler than 
ours, as ours is nobler than that of the dust. 

Mary. I am glad you have said that ; for 
I know Violet and Lucilla and May want 
to ask you something; indeed, we all do; 
only you frightened Violet so about the ant- 
hill, that she can't say a w T ord ; and May is 
atraid ot your teasing her too : but I know 
ihey are wondering why you are always 
telling them about heathen gods and god- 
desses, as if you half believed in them ; 
and you represent them as good ; and then 
we see there is really a kind of truth in the 
stories about them ; and we are all puzzled : 
and, in this, we cannot even make our diffi- 
culty quite clear to ourselves ; — it would be 
such a long confused question, if we could 
ask you all we should like to know. 

L. Nor is it any wonder, Mary ; for this 
is indeed the longest, and the most wildly 
confused question that reason can deal with ; 



Gbe Crystal IRest. 217 

but I will try to give you, quickly, a few 
clear ideas about the heathen gods, which 
you may follow out afterwards, as your 
knowledge increases. 

Every heathen conception of deity, in 
which you are likely to be interested, has 
three distinct characters : — 

I. It has a physical character. It repre- 
sents some of the great powers or objects 
of nature — sun or moon, or heaven, or the 
winds, or the sea. And the fables first re- 
lated about each deity represent, figuratively, 
the action or the natural power which it 
represents ; such as the rising and setting of 
the sun, the tides of the sea, and so on. 

II. It has an ethical character, and repre- 
sents, in its history, the moral dealings of 
God with man. Thus Apollo is first, physi- 
cally, the sun contending with darkness ; 
but morally, the power of divine life con- 
tending with corruption. Athena is, physi- 
cally, the air ; morally, the breathing of the 
divine spirit of wisdom. Neptune is, physi- 
cally, the sea ; morally, the supreme power 
of agitating passion ; and so on. 

III. It has, at last, a personal character ; 
and is realized in the minds of its wor- 
shipers as a living spirit, with whom men 
may speak face to face, as a man speaks to 
his friend. 

Now it is impossible to define exactly, 
how far, at any period of a national religion, 
these three ideas are mingled ; or how far 



218 Cbe Etbics of tbe Dust* 

one prevails over the other. Each inquire? 
usually takes up one of these ideas, and 
pursues it, to the exclusion of the others; 
no impartial effort seems to have been made 
to discern the real state of the heathen im> 
agination in its successive phases. For the 
question is not at all what a mythological 
figure meant in its origin ; but what it be- 
came in each subsequent mental develop- 
ment of the nation inheriting the thought. 
Exactly in proportion to the mental and 
moral insight of any race, its mythological 
figures mean more to it, and become more 
real. An early and savage race means 
nothing more (because it has nothing more 
to mean) by its Apollo, than the sun ; w r hile 
a cultivated Greek means every operation 
of divine intellect and justice. The Neith, 
of Egypt, meant, physically, little more 
than the blue of the air ; but the Greek, in 
a climate of alternate storm and calm, repre- 
sented the wild fringes of the storm-cloud 
by the serpents of her aegis ; and the ight- 
ning and cold of the highest thunder-clouds, 
by the Gorgon on her shield : wh e morally, 
the same types represented to him the mys- 
tery and changeful terror of knowledge, as 
her spear and helm its ruling and defensive 
power. And no study can be more interest- 
ing, or more useful to you, than that of the 
different meanings which have been created 
by great nations, and great poets, out of 
mythological figures given them, at first, in 



Cbe Crystal IRceU 219 

utter simplicity. But when we approach 
them in their third, or personal, character 
(and, for its power over the whole national 
mind, this is far the leading one), we are 
met at once by questions which may well 
put all of you at pause. Were th*y idly 
imagined to be real beings ? and did they so 
usurp the place of the true God ? Or were 
they actually real beings, — evil spirits, — ■ 
leading men away from the true God ? Or 
is it conceivable that they might have been 
real beings, — good spirits, — entrusted with 
some message from the true God ? These 
were the questions you wanted to ask ; were 
they not, Lucilla? 

Lucilla. Yes, indeed. 

L. Well, Lucilla, the answer will much 
depend upon the clearness of your faith in 
the personality of the spirits which are de- 
scribed in the book of your own religion ; 
•—their personality, observe, as distinguished 
from merely symbolical visions. For in- 
stance, when Jeremiah has the vision of the 
seething pot with its mouth to the north, 
you know that this which he sees is not a 
real thing ; but merely a significant dream. 
Also, when Zechariah sees the speckled 
horses among the myrtle-trees in the bottom, 
you still may suppose the vision symbolical; 
— you do not think of them as real spirits, 
like Pegasus, seen in the form of horses. 
But when you are told of the four riders in 
the Apocalypse, a distinct sense of person* 



220 Gbe jEtbice ot tbe 2>ust. 

ality begins to force itself upon you. And 
though you might, in a dull temper, think 
that (for one instance of all) the fourth rider 
on the pale horse was merely a symbol of 
the power of ^eath, — in your stronger and 
more earnest moods you will rather con- 
ceive of him as a real and living angel. 
And when you look back from the vision of 
the Apocalypse to the account of the de- 
struction of the Egyptian first-born, and of 
the army of Sennacherib, and again to 
Davids vision at the threshing floor of 
Araunah, the idea of personality in this 
dcath-angel becomes entirely defined, just as 
in the appearance of the angels to Abraham, 
Manoah, or Mary. 

Now, when you have once consented to 
this idea of a personal spirit, must not the 
question instantly follow : "Does this spirit 
exercise its functions towards one race of 
men only, or towards al 1 men ? Was it an 
angel of death to the Jew only, or to the 
Gentile also ? M You find a certain Divine 
agency made visible to a King of Israel, as 
an armed angel, executing vengeance, of 
which one special purpose was to lower his 
kingly pride. You find another (or perhaps 
the same) agency, made visible to a Chris- 
tian prophet as an angel standing in the sun, 
calling to the birds that fly under heaven to 
come, that they may eat the flesh of kings. 
Is there anything impious in the thought 
that the same agency might have been ex* 



Vbe'Grgrtal Vest* mi 

pressed to a Greek king, or Greek seer, by- 
similar visions? — that this figure standing 
in the sun, and armed with the sword, or 
the bow (whose arrows were drunk with 
blood), and exercising especially its power 
in the humiliation of the proud, might, at 
first, have been called only " Destroyer," 
and afterwards, as the light, or sun, of jus- 
tice, was recognized in the chastisement, 
called also " Physician "or " Healer " ? If 
you feel hesitation in admitting the possi- 
bility of such a manifestation, I believe you 
will find it is caused, partly indeed by such 
trivial things as the difference to your ear 
between Greek and English terms ; but, far 
more, by uncertainty in your own mind 
respecting the nature and truth of the visions 
spoken of in the Bible. Have any of you 
intently examined the nature of your belief 
in them ? You, for instance, Lucilla, who 
think often, and seriously, of such things ? 

Lucilla. No ; I never could tell what to 
believe about them. I know they must be 
true in some way or other ; and I like read- 
ing about them. 

L Yes ; and I like reading about them 
too, Lucilla ; as I like reading other grand 
poetry. But, surely, we ought both to 
do more than like it ? Will God be satis- 
fied with us, think you, if we read His words, 
merely for the sake of an entirely meaning- 
less poetical sensation ? 

Lucilla. But do not the people who give 



222 ttbe Btbfcs of tbe Dust, 

themselves to seek out the meaning of these 
things, often get very strange, and extrava- 
gant? 

L. More than that, Lucilla. They often 
go mad. That abandonment of the mind to 
religious theory, or contemplation, is the 
very thing I have been pleading with you 
against. I never said you should set your- 
self to discover the meanings : but you 
should take careful pains to understand them, 
so far as they are clear ; and you should 
always accurately ascertain the state of your 
mind about them. I want you never to read 
merely for the pleasure of fancy ; still less as 
a formal religious duty (else you might as 
well take to repeating Paters at once ; for it 
is surely wiser to repeat one thing we under- 
stand, than read a thousand which we can- 
not). Either, therefore, acknowledge the 
passage to be, for the present, unintelligible 
to you ; or else determine the sense in which 
you at present receive them ; or, at all 
events, the different senses between which 
you clearly see that you must choose. 
Make either your belief or your difficulty 
definite ; but do not go on, all through your 
life, believing nothing intelligently, and yet 
supposing that your having read the words 
of a divine book must give you the right to 
despise every religion but your own. I as- 
sure you, strange as it may seem, our scorn 
of Greek tradition depends, not on our be- 
lief but our disbelief, of our own traditions. 



Zbc Crystal Heat* 223 

We have, as yet, no sufficient clue to the 
meaning of either ; but you will always find 
that, in proportion to the earnestness of our 
own faith, its tendency to accept a spiritual 
personality increases : and that the most 
vital and beautiful Christian temper rests 
joyfully in its conviction of the multitud- 
inous ministry of living angels, infinitely 
varied in rank and power. You all know 
one expression of the purest and happiest 
form of such faith, as it exists in modern 
times, in Richter's lovely illustrations of the 
Lord's Prayer. The real and living death- 
angel, girt as a pilgrim for journey, and 
softly crowned with flowers, beckons at the 
dying mother's door ; child angels sit talking 
face to face with mortal children, among the 
flowers ; — hold them by their little coats, 
lest they fall on the stairs ; whisper dreams 
of heaven to them, leaning over their pil- 
lows ; carry the sound of the church bells 
for them far through the air ; and even de- 
scending lower in service, fill little cups 
with honey, to hold out to the weary bee. 
By the way, Lily, did you tell the other chil- 
dren that story about your little sister, and 
Alice, and the sea? 

Lily. I told it to Alice, and to Miss Dora. 
I don't think I did to anybody else. I 
thought it wasn't worth. 

L. We shall think it worth a great deal 
now, Lily, if you will tell it us. How old 
is Dotty, again ? I forget 



$24 Gbe Etbf cs of tbe Duet 

Lily. She is not quite three ; but she has 
Such odd little old ways, sometimes. 

L. And she was very fond of Alice ? 

Lily. Yes ; Alice was so good to her 
always ! 

L. And so when Alice went away ? 

Lily. Oh, it was nothing, you know, to 
tell about ; only it was strange at the time. 

L. Well ; but I want you to tell it. 

Lily. The morning after Alice had gone, 
Dotty was very sad and restless when she 
got up ; and went about, looking into all the 
corners, as if she could find Alice in them, 
and at last she came to me, and said, " Is 
Alie gone over the great sea ?" And I said, 
" Yes, she is gone over the great deep sea, 
but she will come back again some day." 
Then Dotty looked round the room; and I 
had just poured some water out into the 
basin ; and Dotty ran to it, and got up on a 
chair, and dashed her hands through the 
water, again and again ; and cried, " Oh, 
deep, deep sea ! send little Alie back to me. " 

L. Isn't that pretty, children ? There's a 
dear little heathen for you ! The whole 
heart of Greek mythology is in that ; the idea 
of a personal being in the elemental power ; 
— of its being moved by prayer ; — and of its 
presence everywhere, making the broken 
diffusion of the element sacred. 

Now, remember, the measure in which we 
may permit ourselves to think of this trusted 
and adored personality, in Greek, or in any 



Cbe Crystal Heel. 225 

Other, mythology, as conceivably a shadow 
of truth, will depend on the degree in which 
we hold the Greeks, or other great nations, 
equal, or inferior, in privilege and character, 
to the Jews, or to ourselves. If we believe 
that the great Father would use the imagina- 
tion of the Jew as an instrument by which 
to exalt and lead him ; but the imagination of 
the Greek only to degrade and mislead him : 
if we can suppose that real angels were sent 
to minister to the Jews and to punish them ; 
but no angels, or only mocking spectra of 
angels, or even devils in the shapes of an- 
gels, to lead Lycurgus and Leonidas from 
desolate cradle to hopeless grave : — and if 
we can think that it was only the influence 
of specters, or the teaching of demons, 
which issued in the making of mothers like 
Cornelia, and of sons like Cleobis and Bito, 
we may, of course, reject the heathen My- 
thology in our privileged scorn ; but, at least, 
we are bound to examine strictly by what 
faults of our own it has come to pass, that 
the ministry of real angels among ourselves 
is occasionally so ineffectual as to end in the 
production of Cornelias who entrust their 
child-jewels to Charlotte Winsors for the bet- 
ter keeping of them ; and of sons like that 
one who, the other day, in France, beat his 
mother to death with a stick ; and was 
brought in by the jury, "guilty, with ex- 
tenuating circumstances." 
May. Was that really possible. 



226 Gbe Btbfcs of tbe 2>ust. r 

L. Yes, my dear. I am not sure that I 
ran lay my hand on the reference to it (and 
I should not have said "the other day,"— 
it was a year or two ago), but you may de- 
pend on the fact; and I could give you 
many like it, if I chose. There was a 
murder done in Russia, very lately, on a 
traveler. The murderess's little daughter 
was in the way, and found it out, somehow. 
Her mother killed her, too, and put her into 
the oven. There is a peculiar horror about 
the relations between parent and child, 
which are being now brought about by our 
variously degraded forms of European white 
slavery. Here is one reference, I see, in 
my notes on that story of Cleobis and Bito ; 
though I suppose I marked this chiefly for 
its quaintness and the beautifully Christian 
names of the sons ; but it is a good instance 
of the power of the King of the Valley of 
Diamonds * among us. 

In "Galignani," of July 21-22, 1862, is 
reported a trial of a farmer's son in the de- 
partment of the Yonne. The father, two 
years ago, at Malay le Grand, gave up his 
property to his two sons, on condition of 
being maintained by them. Simon fulfilled 
his agreement, but Pierre would not. The 
tribunal of Sens condemns Pierre to pay 
eighty-four francs a year to his father. 
Pierre replies, "he would rather die than 

* Note vL 



Gbe Crgatal IResfc 227 

pay it." Actually, returning* home, ha 
throws himself into the river, and the body 
is not found till next day, 

Mary. But — but — I can't tell what you 
would have us think. Do you seriously 
mean that the Greeks were better than we 
are ; and that their gods were real angels ? 

L. No, my dear. I mean only that we 
know, in reality, less than nothing of the 
dealings of our Maker with our fellow-men ; 
and can only reason or conjecture safely 
about them, when we have sincerely hum- 
ble thoughts of ourselves and our creeds. 

We owe to the Greeks every noble dis- 
cipline in literature, every radical principle of 
art ; and every form of convenient beauty 
in our household furniture and daily occupa- 
tions of life. We are unable, ourselves, to 
make rational use of half that we have re- 
ceived from them : and, of our own, we 
have nothing but discoveries in science, and 
fine mechanical adaptations of the discov- 
ered physical powers. On the other hand, 
the vice existing among certain classes, 
both of the rich and poor, in London, Paris, 
and Vienna, could have been conceived by a 
Spartan or Roman of the heroic ages only 
as possible in a Tartarus, where fiends were 
employed to teach, but not to punish, crime. 
It little becomes us to speak contemptuously 
of the religion of races to whom we stand in 
such relations ; nor do I think any man of 
modesty or thoughtfulness will ever speak 



228 Cbe Etbics of tbe Bust* 

so of any religion, in which God has allowed 
one good man to die, trusting. 

The more readily we admit the possibility 
of our own cherished convictions being 
mixed with error, the more vital and helpful 
whatever is right in them will become : and 
no error is so conclusively fatal as the idea 
that God will not allow us to err, though 
He has allowed all other men to do so. 
There maybe doubt of the meaning of other 
visions, but there is none respecting that of 
the dream of St. Peter ; and you may trust 
the Rock of the Church's Foundation for true 
interpreting, when he learned from it that, 
"in every nation, he that feareth God and 
worketh righteousness, is accepted with 
Him." See that you understand what that 
righteousness means ; and set hand to it 
stoutly : you will always measure your neigh- 
bors' creed kindly, in proportion to the sub- 
stantial fruits of your own. Do not think 
you will ever get harm by striving to enter 
into the faith of others, and to sympathize, 
in imagination, with the guiding principles 
of their lives. So only can you justly love 
them, or pity them, cr praise. By the gra- 
cious efforts you will double, treble — nay, in- 
definitely multiply, at once the pleasure, the 
reverence, and the intelligence with which 
you read : and, believe me, it is wiser and 
holier, by the fire of your own faith, to kindle 
the ashes of expired religions, than to let 
your soul shiver and stumble among their 



fLbc Crystal West. 229 

graves, through the gathering darkness, and 
communicable cold. 

Mary {after some pause). We shall all 
like reading Greek history so much better 
after this ! but it has put everything else out 
of our heads that we wanted to ask. 

L. I can tell you one of the things ; and 
I might take credit for generosity in telling 
you : but I have a personal reason — Lucilla's 
verse about the creation. 

Dora. Oh, yes — yes; and its "pain to- 
gether, until now." 

L. I call you back to that, because I must 
warn you against an old error of my own. 
Somewhere in the fourth volume of "Modern 
Painters," I said that the earth seemed to 
have passed through its highest state : and 
that, after ascending by a series of phases, 
culminating in its habitation by man, it 
seems to be now gradually becoming less 
fit for that habitation. 

Mary. Yes, I remember. 

L. I wrote those passages under a very 
bitter impression of the gradual perishing of 
beauty from the loveliest scenes which I 
.knew in the physical world ; — not in any 
doubtful way, such as I might have attrib- 
uted to loss of sensation in myself — but by 
violent and definite physical action ; such 
as the filling up of the Lac de Chede by 
landslips from the Rochers des Fiz; — the 
narrowing of the Lake Lucerne by the gain- 
ing delta of the stream of the Muotta-Thal, 



230 Zbc JEtbics of tbe Dust 

which, in the course of years, will cut the 
lake into two, as that of Brientz has been 
divided from that of Thun ; — the steady 
diminishing of the glaciers north of the Alps, 
end still more,' of the sheets of snow on their 
southern slopes, which supply the refreshing 
streams of Lombardy : — the equally steady 
increase of deadly maremma round Pisa and 
Venice ; and other such phenomena, quite 
measurably traceable within the limits even 
of short life, and unaccompanied, as it 
seemed, by redeeming or compensatory 
agencies. I am still under the same impres- 
sion respecting the existing phenomena ; 
but I feel more strongly, every day, that no 
evidence to be collected within historical 
periods can be accepted as any clew to the 
great tendencies of geological change ; but 
that the great laws which never fail, and to 
which all change is subordinate, appear 
such as to accomplish a gradual advance to 
lovelier order, and more calmly, yet more 
deeply, animated Rest. Nor has this con- 
viction ever fastened itself upon me more 
distinctly, than during my endeavor to trace 
the laws which govern the lowly framework 
of the dust. For, through all the phases of 
its transition and dissolution, there seems to 
be a continual effort to raise itself into a 
higher state ; and a measured gain, through 
the fierce revulsion and slow renewal of the 
earth's frame, in beauty, and order, and per- 
manence, The soft white sediments of the 



Gbe Crystal "Rest. 231 

feea draw themselves, in process of time, 
into smooth knots of sphered symmetry ; 
burdened and strained under increase of 
pressure, they pass into a nascent marble ; 
scorched by fervent heat, they brighten and 
blanch into the snowy rock of Paros anl 
Carrara. The dark drift of the inland river 
or stagnant slime of inland pool and lake, 
divides, or resolves itself as it dries, into 
layers of its several elements ; slowly puri- 
fying each by the patient withdrawal of 
it from the anarchy of the mass in which it 
was mingled. Contracted by increasing 
drought, till it must shatter into fragments, 
it infuses continually a finer ichor into the 
opening veins, and finds in its weakness the 
first rudiments of a perfect strength. Rent 
at last, rock from rock, nay, atom from 
atom, and tormented in lambent fire, it 
knits, through the fusion, the fibers of a per- 
ennial endurance; and, during countless 
subsequent centuries, declining, or, rather 
let me say, rising, to repose, finishes the 
infallible luster of its crystalline beauty, 
under harmonies of law which are wholly 
beneficent, because wholly inexorable. 

{The children seem pleased, but more in- 
clined to think over these matters than 
to talk.) 
L. {after giving them a little lime). Mary, I 
seldom ask you to read anything out of 
books of mine ; but there is a passage about 
the Law of Help, which I want you to read 



232 Gbe JEtbics ot tbe Dust/ 

to the children now, because it is of no 
use merely to put it in other words for 
them. You know the place I mean, do not 
you? 

Mary. Yes {presently finding it) ; where 
shall I begin ? 

L. Here ; but the elder ones had better 
look afterwards at the piece which comes 
just before this. 

Mary {reads) : 

" A pure or holy state of anything is that in which 
all its parts are helpful or consistent. The highest and 
first law of the universe, and the other name of life, is 
therefore * help.' The other name of death is * separa- 
tion.' Government and co-operation are in all things, 
and eternally, the laws of life. Anarchy and competi- 
tion, eternally, and in all things, the laws of death. 

" Perhaps the best, though the most familiar, ex- 
ample we could take of the nature and power of con- 
sistence, will be that of the possible changes in the 
dust we tread on. 

" Exclusive of animal decay, we can hardly arrive at 
a more absolute type of impurity, than the mud or 
slime of a damp, over-trodden path, in the outskirts of 
a manufacturing town. I do not say mud of the road, 
because that is mixed with animal refuse ; but take 
merely an ounce or two of the blackest slime of a 
beaten footpath, on a rainy day, near a manufacturing 
town. That slime we shall find in most cases composed 
of clay (or brickdust, which is burnt clay), mixed with 
soot, a little sand and water. All these elements are at 
helpless war with each other, and destroy reciprocally 
each other's nature and power: competing and fight- 
ing for place at every tread of your foot ; sand squeez- 
ing out clay, and clay squeezing out water, and soot 
meddling everywhere, and defiling the whole. Let us 
suppose that this ounce of mud is left in perfect rest f 
and that its elements gather together, like to like, sx> 



£be Crystal Iteat, 233 

that their atoms may get into the closest relations pos- 
sible. 

" Let the clay begin. Ridding itself of all foreign 
substance, it gradually becomes a white earth, already 
very beautiful, and fit, with help of congealing fire, to 
be made into finest porcelain, and painted on, and be 
kept in kings' palaces. But such artificial consistence 
is not its best. Leave it still quiet, to follow its own 
instinct of unity, and it becomes, not only white, but 
clear ; not only clear, but hard ; nor only clear and 
hard, but so set that it can deal with light in a wonder- 
ful way, and gather out of it the loveliest blue rays 
only, refusing the rest. We call it then a sapphire. 

" Such being the consummation of the clay, we give 
similar permission of quiet to the sand. It also be- 
comes, first, a white earth ; then proceeds to grow clear 
and hard, and at last arranges itself in mysterious, in- 
finitely fine parallel lines, which have the power of re- 
flecting, not merely the blue rays, but the blue, green, 
purple, and red rays, in the greatest beauty in which 
they can be seen through any hard material whatso- 
ever. We call it then an opal. 

" In next order the soot sets to work. It cannot 
make itself white at first ; but, instead of being dis- 
couraged, tries harder and harder; and comes out 
clear at last ; and the hardest thing in the world ; and 
for the blackness that it had, obtains in exchange the 
power of reflecting all the rays of the sun at once, in 
the vividest blaze that any solid thing can shoot. We 
call it then a diamond. 

" Last of all, the water purifies, or unites itself ; 
contented enough if it only reach the form of a dew- 
drop : but if we insist on its proceeding to a more per- 
fect consistence, it crystallizes into the shape of a star. 
And, for the ounce of slime which we had by political 
economy of competition, we have, by political economy 
of co-operation, a sapphire, an opal, and a diamond, 
set in the midst of a star of snow. 7 ' 

L. I have asked you to hear that, children, 
because, from all that we have seen in the 



234 ^ bc ethics of Ste 2>ust, 

work and play of these past days, I would 
have you gain at least one grave and endur- 
ing thought. The seeming trouble, — the 
unquestionable degradation,— of the ele- 
ments of the physical earth, must passively 
wait the appointed time of their repose, or 
their restoration. It can only be brought 
about for them by the agency of external 
law. But if, indeed, there be a nobler life 
in us than in these strangely moving atoms ; 
— if, indeed, there is an eternal difference 
between the fire which inhabits them, and 
that which animates us, — it must be shown, 
by each of us in his appointed place, not 
merely in the patience, but in the activity 
of our hope ; not merely by our desire, but 
our labor, for the time when the Dust of the 
generations of men shall be confirmed for 
foundations of the gates of the city of God 
The human clay, now trampled and de- 
spised, will not be, — cannot be, — knit into 
strength and light by accident or ordinances 
of unassisted fate. By human cruelty and 
iniquity it has been afflicted; — by human 
mercy and justice it must be raised : and, in 
all fear or questioning of what is or is not, 
the real message of creation, or of revela- 
tion, you may assuredly find perfect peace, 
if you are resolved to do that which your 
Lord has plainly required, — and content 
that He should indeed require no more of 
you, — than to do Justice, to love Mercy, 
-audio walk humbly with Him. 



NOTES. 



NOTES. 



Note I. 

Page 32. 

u That third pyramid of hers?' 

Throughout the dialogues, it must be observed 
that " Sibyl " is addressed (when in play) as having 
once been the Cumaean Sibyl ; and " Egypt n as having 
been Queen Nitocris, — the Cinderella and " the greatest 
heroine and beauty ' ' of Egyptian story. The Egyptians 
called her " Neith the Victorious" (Nitocris), and the 
Greeks " Face of the Rose" (Rhodope). Chaucer's 
beautiful conception of Cleopatra in the " Legend of 
Good Women," is much more founded on the tradi- 
tions of her than on those of Cleopatra ; and, especially 
in its close, modified by Herodotus' s terrible story of 
the death of Nitocris, which, however, is mythologically 
nothing more than a part of the deep monotonous 
ancient dirge for the fulfillment of the earthly destiny 
of Beauty ; " She cast herself into a chamber full of 
ashes." 

I believe this Queen is now sufficiently ascertained 
to have either built, or increased to double its former 
size, the third pyramid of Gizeh : and the passage 
following in the text refers to an imaginary endeavor, 
by the Old Lecturer and the children together, to make 
out the description of that pyramid in the 167th page of 
tke second volume of Bunsen's " Egypt's Place in 
Universal History "—ideal endeavor, — which ideally 

237 



2 3 3 flotes* 

terminates as the Old Lecturer's real endeavors to the 
same end always have terminated. There are, how- 
ever, valuable notes respecting Nitocris at page 210 of 
the same volume : but the " Early Egyptian History 
for the Young," by the author of " Sidney Gray" con- 
tains, in a pleasant form, as much information as young 
readers will usually need. 

Note II. 

Page 33. 

u Pyramid of Asyckis}* 

This pyramid, in mythology, divides with the Tower 
of Babel the shame, or vainglory, of being presumptu- 
ously, and first among great edifices, built with " brick 
for stone." This was the inscription on it, according 
to Herodotus : 

" Despise me not, in comparing me with the 
pyramids of stone; for I have the pre-eminence 
over them, as far as Jupiter has pre-eminence over 
the gods. For, striking with staves into the pool, 
men gathered the clay which fastened itself to the 
staff, and kneaded bricks out of it, and so made 
me. 

The word I have translated " kneaded " is literally 
€t drew ; " in the sense of drawing, for which the Latins 
used " duco " ; and thus gave us our " ductile " in speak- 
ing of dead clay, and Duke, Doge, or leader, in speak- 
ing of living clay. As the asserted pre-eminence of the 
edifice is made, in this inscription, to rest merely on 
the quantity of labor consumed in it, this pyramid is 
considered, in the text, as the type, at once, of the base 
building, and of the lost labor, of future ages, so far 
at least as the spirits of measured and mechanical 
effort deal with it ; but Neith, exercising her power 
upon it, makes it a type of the work of wise and in* 
spired builders* 



Hotes* 239 

Note III. 

Page 34. 

u The Greater Pthah." 

It is impossible, as yet, to define with distinctness 
the personal agencies of the Egyptian deities. They 
are continually associated in function, or hold derivative 
powers, or are related to each other in mysterious 
triads ; uniting always symbolism of physical phenomena 
with real spiritual power. I have endeavored partly 
to explain this in the text of the tenth Lecture : here, 
it is only necessary for the reader to know that the 
Greater Pthah more or less represents the formative 
power of order and measurement : he always stands 
on a four-square pedestal, " the Egyptian cubit, meta- 
phorically used as the hieroglyphic for truth ;" his limbs 
are bound together, to signify fixed stability, as of a 
pillar ; he has a measuring-rod in his hand ; and at 
Philae, is represented as holding an egg on a potter's 
wheel ; but I do not know if this symbol occurs in 
older sculptures. His usual title is the "Lord of 
Truth." Others, very beautiful : " King of the Two 
"Worlds, of Gracious Countenance," "Superintendent 
of the Great Abode," etc., are given by Mr. Birch in 
Arundale's " Gallery of Antiquities," which I suppose 
is the book of best authority easily accessible. For 
the full titles and utterance of the gods, Rosellini is 
as yet the only — and, I believe, still a very questionable 
— authority ; Arundale's little book, excellent in the 
text, has this great defect, that its drawings give the 
statues invariably a ludicrous or ignoble character. 
Readers who have not access to the originals must be 
warned against this frequent fault in modern illustra- 
tion (especially existing also in some of the painted 
casts of Gothic and Norman work at the Crystal 
Palace). It is not owing to any willful want of veracity : 
the plates in Arundale's book are laboriously faithful : 
but the expressions of both face and body in a figure 



240 Hote0# 

depend merely on emphasis of touch • and, In barbaric 
art, most draughtsmen emphasize what they plainly 
see — the barbarism ; and miss conditions of nobleness, 
which they must approach the monument in a different 
temper before they will discover and draw with great 
subtlety before they can express. 

The character of the Lower Pthah, or perhaps I 
ought rather to say, of Pthah in his lower office, is suf- 
ficiently explained in the text of the third Lecture ; 
only the reader must be warned that the Egyptian 
symbolism of him by the beetle was not a scornful 
one ; it expressed only the idea of his presence in the 
first elements of life. But it may not unjustly be used, 
in another sense, by us, who have seen his power in 
new development ; and, even as it was, I cannot con- 
ceive that the Egyptians should have regarded their 
beetle-headed image of him (Champollion, " Pantheon," 
pi. 12), without some occult scorn. It is the most pain- 
ful of all their types of any beneficent power ; and even 
among those o'f evil influences, none can be compared 
with it, except its opposite, the tortoise-headed demon 
of indolence. 

Pasht (p. 33, line 5) is connected with the Greek 
Artemis, especially in her offices of judgment and 
vengeance. She is usually lioness-headed ; sometimes 
cat-headed ; her attribute seeming often trivial or ludi- 
crous unless their full meaning is known ; but the in- 
quiry is much too wide to be followed here. The cat 
was sacred to her; or rather to the sun, and secondarily 
to her. She is alluded to in the text because she is al- 
ways the companion of Pthah (called " the beloved of 
Pthah," it may be as Judgment, demanded and longed 
for by Truth) ; and it may be well for young readers to 
have this fixed in their minds, even by chance associa- 
tion. There are more statues of Pasht in the British 
Museum than of any other Egyptian deity; several of 
them fine in workmanship; nearly all in dark stone, 
which may be, presumably, to connect her, as the moon, 
with the night ; and in her office of avenger, with 
grief. 

Thoth (p. 37, line 5) is the Recording Angel of 



flotes* 241 

Judgment; and the Greek Hermes— Phre (line 9), is 
the Sun. 

Neith is the Egyptian spirit of divine wisdom ; and 
the Athena of the Greeks. No sufficient statement of 
her many attributes, still less of their meanings, can be 
shortly given ; but this should be noted respecting the 
veiling of the Egyptian image of her by vulture wings 
— that as she is, physically, the goddess of the air, this 
bird, the most powerful creature of the air known to 
the Egyptians, naturally became her symbol. It had 
other significations ; but certainly this, when in connec- 
tion with Neith. As representing her, it was the most 
important sign, next to the winged sphere, in Egyptian 
sculpture; and, just as in Homer, Athena herself guides 
her heroes into battle, this symbol of wisdom, giving 
victory, floats over the heads of the Egyptian Kings. 
The Greeks, representing the goddess herself in human 
form, yet would not lose the power of the Egyptian 
symbol, and changed it into an angel of victory. First 
seen in loveliness on the early coins of Syracuse and 
Leontium, it gradually became the received sign of all 
conquest, and the so-called "Victory" of later times; 
which, little by little, loses its truth, and is accepted by 
the moderns only as a personification of victory itself, 
— not as an actual picture of the living Angel who led 
to victory. There is a wide difference between these 
two conceptions, — all the difference between insincere 
poetry, and sincere religion. This I have also en«; 
deavored farther to illustrate in the tenthLecture ; there 
is, however, one part of Athena's character which it 
would have been irrelevant to dwell upon there ; yet 
which I must not wholly leave unnoticed. 

As the goddess of the air, she physically represents 
both its beneficent calm, and necessary tempest : other 
storm-deities (as Chrysaor and ./Eolus) being invested 
with a subordinate and more or less malignant function, 
which is exclusively their own, and is related to that of 
Athena as the power of Mars is related to hers in war. 
So also Virgil makes her able to wield the lightning 
herself, while Juno cannot, but must pray for the inter- 
vention of iEolus, She has precisely the correspondent 

16 



242 1*otes. 

moral authority over calmness of mind, and just anger. 
She soothes Achilles, as she incites Tydides ; her phys- 
ical power over the air being always hinted correlatively. 
She grasps Achilles by his hair — as the wind would lift 
it—softly, 

" It fanned his cheek, it raised his hair, 
Like a meadow gale in spring." 

She does not merely turn the lance of Mars from Dio- 
med ; but seizes it in both her hands, and casts it aside, 
with a sense of making it vain, like chaff in the wind; 
—to the shout of Achilles, she adds her own voice of 
storm in heaven — but in all cases the moral power is 
still the principal one — most beautifully in that seizing 
of Achilles by the hair, which was the talisman of his 
life (because he had vowed it to the Sperchius if he re- 
turned in safety), and which, in giving at Patroclus' 
tomb, he, knowingly, yields up the hope of return to his 
country, and signifies that he will die with his friend. 
Achilles and Tydides are, above all other heroes, aided 
by her in war, because their prevailing characters are 
tne desire of justice, united in both, with deep affec- 
tions ; and, in Achilles, with a passionate tenderness, 
which is the real root of his passionate anger. Ulysses 
is her favorite chiefly in her office as the goddess of 
conduct and design. 



Note IV. 

Page 82. 

u Geometrical limitations?* 

It is difficult, without a tedious accuracy, or without 
full illustration, to express the complete relations of 
crystalline structure, which dispose minerals to take, at 
different times, fibrous, massive, or foliated forms ; and 
I am afraid this chapter will be generally skipped by 
the reader : yet the arrangement itself will be found 
useful, if kept broadly in mind : and the transitions oi 



flotcs* 243 

state are of the highest interest, if the subject is entered 
upon with any earnestness. It would have been vain 
to add to the scheme of this little volume any account 
of the geometrical forms of crystals : an available one, 
though still far too difficult and too copious, has been 
arranged by the Rev. Mr. Mitchell, for Orr's " Circle of 
the Sciences"; and, I believe, the "nets" of crystals, 
which are therein given to be cut out with scissors and 

Eut prettily together, will be found more conquerable 
y young ladies than by other students. They should 
also, when an opportunity occurs, be shown, at any 
public library, the diagram of the crystallization of 
quartz referred to poles, at p. 8 of Cloizaux's " Manuel 
de Mineralogie ' ' ; that they may know what work is ; 
and what the subject is. 

With a view to more careful examination of the nas- 
cent states of silica, I have made no allusion in this vol- 
ume to the influence of mere segregation, as connected 
with the crystalline power. It has only been recently, 
during the study of the breccias alluded to in page 186 
that I have fully seen the extent to which this singular 
force often modifies rocks in which at first its influence 
might hardly have been suspected ; many apparent 
conglomerates being in reality formed chiefly by segre- 
gation, combined with mysterious brokenly-zoned struct- 
ures, like those of some malachites. I hope some day 
to know more of these and several other mineral pheno- 
mena (especially of those connected with the relative 
sizes of crystals), which otherwise I should have ei> 
deavored to describe in this volume. 



Note V. 

Page 168. 

" St. Barbara" 

I would have given the legends of St. Barbara, and 
St. Thomas, if I had thought it always well for young 
readers to have everything at once told them which 



244 IRotes* 

they may wish to know. They will remember the 
stories better after taking some trouble to find them ; 
and the text is intelligible enough as it stands. The 
idea of St. Barbara, as there given, is founded partly 
on her legend in Peter de Natalibus, partly on the 
beautiful photograph of Van Eyck's picture of her at 
Antwerp ; which was some time since published at Lille 

Note VI. 

Page 226. 

"King of the Valley of Diamonds?* 

ISABEL interrupted the Lecturer here, and was briefly 
bid to hold her tongue ; which gave rise to some talk, 
apart, afterwards, between L. and Sibyl, of which a 
word or two may be perhaps advisably set down. 

Sibyl. We shall spoil Isabel, certainly, if we don't 
mind ; I was glad you stopped her, and yet sorry ; for 
she wanted so much to ask about the Valley of Dia- 
monds again, and she has worked so hard at it, and 
made it nearly all out by herself. She recollected 
Elisha's throwing in the meal, which nobody else 
did. 

L. But what did she want to ask ? 

Sibyl. About the mulberry trees and the serpents ; 
we are all stopped by that. Won't you tell us what it 
means ? 

L. Now, Sibyl, I am sure you, who never explained 
yourself, should be the last to expect others to do so. 
1 hate explaining myself. 

Sibyl. And yet how often you complain of other 
people for not saying what they meant. How I have 
heard you growl over the three stone steps to purga- 
tory : for instance ! 

L. Yes ; because Dante's meaning is worth getting 
at ; but mine matters nothing ; at least, if ever I think 
it is of any consequence, I speak it as clearly as may 
be. But you may make anything you like of the ser« 



flotsa.- 245 

pent forests. I could have helped you to find out what 
they were, by giving a little more detail, but it would 
have been tiresome. 

Sibyl. It is much more tiresome not to rind out. 
Tell us, please, as Isabel says, because we feel so 
stupid. 

L. There is no stupidity ; you could not possibly do 
more than guess at anything so vague. But I think, 
you, Sibyl, at least, might have recollected what first 
dyed the mulberry? 

Sibyl. So I did; but that helped little ; I thought of 
Dante's forest of suicides, too, but you would not simply 
have borrowed that ? 

L. No. If I had had strength to use it, I should 
have stolen it, to beat into another shape ; not borrowed 
it. But that idea of souls in trees is as old as the 
world ; or at least as the world of man. And I did 
mean that there were souls in those dark branches ;— 
the souls of all those who had perished in misery 
through the pursuit of riches, and that the river was 
of their blood, gathering gradually, and flowing out of 
the valley. Then I meant the serpents for the souls of 
those who had lived carelessly and wantonly in their 
riches; and who had all their sins forgiven by the 
world, because they are rich : and therefore they have 
seven crimson-crested heads, for the seven mortal sins; 
of which they are proud : and these, and the memory 
and report of them, are the chief causes of temptation f 
to others, as showing the pleasantness and absolving 
power of riches ; so that thus they are singing serpents. 
And the worms are the souls of the common money- 
getters and traffickers, who do nothing but eat and 
Spin : and who gain habitually by the distress or fool- 
ishness of others (as you see the butchers have been 
gaining out of the panic at the cattle plague, among 
the poor), — so they are made to eat the dark leaves, 
and spin, and perish. 

Sibyl. And the souls of the great, cruel, rich people 
who oppress the poor, and lend money to government 
to make unjust war, where are they? 

L. They change into the ice, I believe, and are knit 



246 Hotes. 

with the gold* and make the grave-dust of the valley. 
I believe so, at least, for no one ever sees those souls 
anywhere. 

(Sibyl ceases questioning.) 

Isabel (who has crept up to her side without any ont 
seeing). Oh, Sibyl, please ask him about the fire- 
flies ! 

L. What, you there, mousie ! No; I won't tell 
either Sibyl or you about the fireflies ; nor a word more 
about anything else. You ought to be little fireflies 
yourselves, and find your way in twilight by your own 
wits. 

Isabel. But you said they burned, you know ? 

L. Yes ; and you may be fireflies that way too, some 
of you, before long, though I did not mean that. 
Away with you, children. You have thought enough 
for to-day. 

NOTE TO SECOND EDITION. 

Sentence out of letter from May (who is staying with 
Isabel just now at Cassel), dated 15th June, 1877 : — 

" I am reading the Ethics with a nice Irish girl who 
is staying here, and she's just as puzzled as I've always 
been about the fireflies, and we both want to know so 
much. — Please be a very nice old Lecturer, and tell us, 
won't you ? " 

Well, May, you never were a vain girl; so could 
scarcely guess that I meant them for the light, unpur* 
sued vanities, which yet blind us, confused among the 
stars. One evening, as I came late into Siena, the fire- 
flies were flying high on a stormy sirocco wind, — the 
stars themselves no brighter, and all their host seem- 
ing, at moments* *o fade as the insects faded. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Dec. 2004 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



P, li. 117 



THE PUBLIC LIBRARY 

WASHINGTON, D. C. 

BfiS. RSMe 

2.QZ68B. 



All losses or injuries beyond reasonable wear, how- 
ever caused, must be promptly adjusted by the person 
to whom the book is charged. V 

Fine for over detention, two cents a day (Sundays 
and holidays excluded). 



MT. PLEASAB5 



TJ. S. GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE: 1929 



9—1330 



•*■■.. \, :' • ■*■ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 







013 610 532 2 



b*P 



ft 




~Jw 






v? ^^ 



^°"a» 









' 7 Itt 



7\f 






k 






%j? 






»'«* -;, 



44 









%% 











m^ 



